FROM  THE 
LIBRARY  OF 


KNEBWOHTH   LIMITED    EDITION 


DEVE  RE  U  X 


BY 


EDWARD  BULWER  LYTTON 


(LOUD    LYTTON  J 


WITH     ILLUSTRATIONS 


BOSTON 

ESTES    AND    LAURIAT 
1891 


KNEBWORTH  LIMITED   EDITION. 

Limited  to  One  Thousand  Copies. 
Wo,..5.9.5 


c^ 


'/^ 


TYPOGRAPHY,  ELECTROTYPING,  AND 
PRINTING  BY  JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON, 
UNIVERSITY  PRESS,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


OCA 


DEVEREUX 


w\5i)l:H2:^ 


DEDICATORY  EPISTLE 

TO 

JOHN    AULDJO,    Esq.,  Etc., 

AT  NAPLES 


London. 
My  dear  Auldjo,  —  Permit  me,  as  a  memento  of  the  pleasant  hours 
•we  passed  together,  and  the  intimacy  we  formed  by  the  winding  shores 
and  the  rosy  seas  of  the  old  Parthenope,  to  dedicate  to  you  this  romance. 
It  was  written  in  perhaps  the  happiest  period  of  my  literary  life,  — 
when  success  began  to  brighten  upon  my  labours,  and  it  seemed  to  me  a 
fine  thing  to  make  a  name.  Reputation,  like  all  possessions,  fairer  in 
the  hope  than  the  reality,  shone  before  me  in  the  gloss  of  novelty ;  and 
1  had  neither  felt  the  envy  it  excites,  the  weariness  it  occasions,  nor 
(worse  than  all)  that  coarse  and  painful  notoriety,  that  something  be- 
tween the  gossip  and  the  slander,  which  attends  every  man  whose 
writings  become  known,  —  surrendering  the  grateful  privacies  of  life 
to 

"  The  gaudy,  babbling,  and  remorseless  day." 

In  short,  yet  almost  a  boy  (for,  in  years  at  least,  I  was  little  more, 
when  "  Pelham  "  and  "  The  Disowned  "  were  conceived  and  composed), 
and  full  of  the  sanguine  arrogance  of  hope,  I  pictured  to  myself  far 
greater  triumphs  than  it  will  ever  be  mine  to  achieve  :  and  never  did 
architect  of  dreams  build  his  pyramid  upon  (alas  !)  a  narrower  base,  or 
a  more  crumbling  soil !  .  .  .  Time  cures  us  effectually  of  these  self- 
conceits,  and  brings  us,  somewhat  harshly,  from  the  gay  extravagance 
of  confounding  the  much  that  we  design  with  the  little  that  we  can 
accomplish. 

"  The  Disowned  "  and  "  Devereux  "  were  both  completed  in  retire-^ 
ment,  and  in  the  midst  of  metaphysical  studies  and  investigations,  varied 
and  miscellaneous  enough,  if  not  very  deeply  conned.     At  that  time  I 
was  indeed  engaged  in  preparing  for  the  j)rcss  a  Philosoj)liical  Work 


/ 


vi  DEDICATIOX. 

whicli  I  had  afterwards  the  good  sense  to  postpone  to  a  riper  age  and  a 
more  sobered  mind.  But  the  effect  of  these  studies  is  somewhat  preju- 
dicially visible  in  both  the  romances  I  have  referred  to ;  and  the  external 
and  dramatic  colourings  which  belong  to  fiction  are  too  often  forsaken  for 
the  inward  and  subtile  analysis  of  motives,  characters,  and  actions.  The 
workman  was  not  sufficiently  master  of  his  art  to  forbear  the  vanity  of 
parading  the  wheels  of  the  mechanism,  and  was  too  fond  of  calling 
attention  to  the  minute  and  tedious  operations  by  which  the  movements 
were  to  be  performed  and  the  result  obtained.  I  believe  that  an  author 
is  generally  pleased  with  his  work  less  in  proportion  as  it  is  good,  than 
in  projjortion  as  it  fulfils  the  idea  with  which  he  commenced  it.  He  is 
rarely  perhaps  an  accurate  judge  how  far  the  execution  is  in  itself 
faulty  or  meritorious ;  but  he  judges  with  tolerable  success  how  far  it 
accomplishes  the  end  and  objects  of  the  conception.  He  is  pleased  with 
his  work,  in  short,  according  as  he  can  say,  "  This  has  expressed  what 
I  meant  it  to  convey."  But  the  reader,  who  is  not  in  the  secret  of  the 
author's  original  design,  usually  views  the  work  through  a  different 
medium ;  and  is  perhaps  in  this  the  wiser  critic  of  the  two  :  for  the 
book  that  wanders  the  most  from  the  idea  which  originated  it  may 
often  be  better  than  that  which  is  rigidly  limited  to  the  unfolding  and 
denouement  of  a  single  conception.  If  we  accept  this  solution,  we  may  be 
enabled  to  understand  why  an  author  not  unfrequently  makes  favourites 
of  some  of  his  productions  most  condemned  by  the  public.  For  my  own 
part,  I  remember  that  "  Devereux  "  pleased  me  better  than  "  Pelham  " 
or  "  The  Disowned,"  because  the  execution  more  exactly  corresponded 
with  the  design.  It  expressed  with  tolerable  fidelity  what  I  meant  it  to 
express.  That  was  a  happy  age,  my  dear  Auldjo,  when,  on  finishing  a 
work,  we  could  feel  contented  with  our  labour,  and  fancy  we  had  done 
our  best !  Now,  alas  !  I  have  learned  enough  of  the  wonders  of  the  Art 
to  recognize  all  the  deficiencies  of  the  Disciple ;  and  to  know  that  no 
author  worth  the  reading  can  ever  in  one  single  work  do  half  of  which 
he  is  capable. 

What  man  ever  wrote  anything  really  good  who  did  not  feel  that  he 
had  the  ability  to  write  something  better  ?  "Writing,  after  all,  is  a  cold 
and  a  coarse  interpreter  of  thought.  How  much  of  the  imagination, 
how  much  of  the  intellect,  evaporates  and  is  lost  while  we  seek  to  em- 
body it  in  words  !  Man  made  language  and  God  the  genius.  Notliing 
short  of  an  eternity  could  enable  men  who  imagine,  think,  and  feel,  to 
express  all  they  have  imagined,  thought,  and  felt.  Immortality,  the 
spiritual  desire,  is  the  intellectual  necessity. 

In  "  Devereux  "  I  wished  to  portray  a  man  flourishing  in  the  last 
century  with  the  train  of  mind  and  sentiment  peculiar  to  the  present ; 


DEDICATION.  Vll 

describing  a  life,  and  not  its  dramatic  epitome,  the  historical  characters 
introduced  are  not  closely  woven  with  the  main  i)lot,  like  those  in  the 
fictions  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  but  are  rather,  like  the  narrative  romances 
of  an  earlier  school,  designed  to  relieve  the  predominant  interest,  and 
give  a  greater  air  of  truth  and  actuality  to  the  supposed  memoir.  It  is 
a  fiction  which  deals  less  with  the  Picturesque  than  the  Real.  Of  the 
principal  character  thus  introduced  (the  celebrated  and  graceful,  but 
charlatanic,  Bolingbroke)  I  still  think  that  my  sketch,  upon  the  whole, 
is  substantially  just.  AVe  must  not  judge  of  the  politicians  of  one  age 
by  the  lights  of  another.  Happily  we  now  demand  in  a  statesman  a 
desire  for  other  aims  than  his  own  advancement ;  but  at  that  period 
ambition  was  almost  universally  selfish  —  the  Statesman  was  yet  a 
Courtier  —  a  man  whose  very  destiny  it  was  to  intrigue,  to  plot,  to 
glitter,  to  deceive.  It  is  in  j)roportion  as  politics  have  ceased  to  be  a 
secret  science,  in  proportion  as  courts  are  less  to  be  flattered  and  tools 
to  be  managed,  that  politicians  have  become  useful  and  honest  men ; 
and  the  statesman  now  directs  a  people,  where  once  he  outwitted  an 
ante-chamber.  Compare  Bolingbroke  —  not  with  the  men  and  by  the 
rules  of  this  day,  but  with  the  men  and  by  the  rules  of  the  last.  He 
will  lose  nothing  in  comparison  with  a  Walpole,  with  a  Marlborough  on 
the  one  side,  —  with  an  Oxford  or  a  Swift  upon  the  other. 

And  now,  my  dear  Auldjo,  you  have  had  enough  of  my  egotisms.  As 
our  works  grow  up,  —  like  old  parents,  we  grow  garrulous,  and  love  to 
recur  to  the  happier  days  of  their  childhood ;  we  talk  over  the  pleasant 
pain  they  cost  us  in  their  rearing,  and  memory  renews  the  season  of 
dreams  and  hopes ;  we  speak  of  their  faults  as  of  things  past,  of  their 
merits  as  of  things  enduring :  we  are  proud  to  see  them  still  living,  and, 
after  many  a  harsh  ordeal  and  rude  assault,  keeping  a  certain  station  in 
the  world  ;  we  hoped  perhaps  something  better  for  them  in  their  cradle, 
but  as  it  is  we  have  good  cause  to  be  contented.  You,  a  fellow-author, 
and  one  whose  spirited  and  charming  sketches  embody  so  much  of  per- 
sonal adventure,  and  therefore  so  much  connect  themselves  with  associ- 
ations of  real  life  as  well  as  of  the  studious  closet ;  you  know,  and  must 
feel  with  me,  that  these  our  books  are  a  part  of  us,  bone  of  our  bone 
and  flesh  of  our  flesh  1  They  treasure  up  the  thoughts  which  stirred  us, 
the  affections  which  warmed  us,  years  ago  ;  they  are  the  mirrors  of  how 
much  of  what  we  were  !  To  the  world  they  are  hut  as  a  certain  number 
of  pages,  —  good  or  bad,  —  tedious  or  diverting ;  but  to  ourselves,  the 
authors,  they  are  as  marks  in  the  wild  maze  of  life  by  which  we  can 
retrace  our  steps,  and  be  with  our  youth  again.  "What  would  I  not  give 
to  feel  as  I  felt,  to  hope  as  I  hoped,  to  believe  as  I  believed,  when  this 
work  was  first  launched  upon  the  world  !     But  time  gives  while  it  takes 


viil  DEDICATION. 

away ;  and  amongst  its  recompenses  for  many  losses  are  the  memories 
I  referred  to  in  commencing  this  letter,  and  gratefully  revert  to  at  its 
close.  From  the  land  of  cloud  and  the  life  of  toil,  I  turn  to  that  golden 
clime  and  the  happy  indolence  that  so  well  accords  with  it ;  and  hope 
once  more,  ere  I  die,  with  a  companion  whose  knowledge  can  recall  the 
past  and  whose  gayety  can  enliven  the  present,  to  visit  the  Disburied 
City  of  Pompeii,  and  see  the  moonlight  sparkle  over  the  waves  of 
Naples.     Adieu,  my  dear  Auldjo, 

And  believe  me, 

Your  obliged  and  attached  friend, 

E.  B.  Lytton. 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHER'S  INTRODUCTION. 


My  life  has  been  one  of  frequent  adventure  and  constant 
excitement.  It  has  been  passed,  to  this  present  day,  in  a 
stirring  age,  and  not  without  acquaintance  of  the  most 
eminent  and  active  spirits  of  the  time.  Men  of  all  grades 
and  of  every  character  have  been  familiar  to  me.  War, 
love,  ambition,  the  scroll  of  sages,  the  festivals  of  wit,  the 
intrigues  of  states,  —  all  that  agitate  mankind,  the  hope 
and  the  fear,  the  labour  and  the  pleasure,  the  great  drama 
of  vanities,  with  the  little  interludes  of  wisdom ;  these  have 
been  the  occupations  of  my  manhood ;  these  will  furnish 
forth  the  materials  of  that  history  which  is  now  open  to 
your  survey.  Whatever  be  the  faults  of  the  historian,  he 
has  no  motive  to  palliate  what  he  has  committed  nor  to 
conceal  what  he  has  felt. 

Children  of  an  after  century,  the  very  time  in  which 
these  pages  will  greet  you  destroys  enough  of  the  connec- 
tion between  you  and  myself  to  render  me  indifferent  alike 
to  your  censure  and  your  applause.  Exactly  one  hundred 
years  from  the  day  this  record  is  completed  will  the  seal  I 
shall  place  on  it  be  broken  and  the  secrets  it  contains  be 
disclosed.  I  claim  that  congeniality  with  you  which  I  have 
found  not  among  my  own  coevals.  Their  thoughts,  their 
feelings,  their  views,  have  nothing  kindred  to  my  own.  I 
speak  their  language,  but  it  is  not  as  a  native  :  they  know 
not  a  syllable  of  mine  !     With  a  future  age  my  heart  may 


X  AUTOBIOGRAPIIER'S  INTRODUCTIOX. 

have  more  in  common ;  to  a  future  age  my  thoughts  may 
be  less  unfamiliar,  and  my  sentiments  less  strange.  I  trust 
these  confessions  to  the  trial ! 

Children  of  an  after  century,  between  you  and  the  being 
who  has  traced  the  pages  ye  behold  —  that  busy,  versatile, 
restless  being  —  there  is  but  one  step,  —  but  that  step  is  a 
century  !  His  now  is  separated  from  your  now  by  an  in- 
terval of  three  generations !  While  he  writes,  he  is  exult- 
ing in  the  vigour  of  health  and  manhood  ;  while  ye  read, 
the  very  worms  are  starving  upon  his  dust.  This  com- 
mune between  the  living  and  the  dead ;  this  intercourse 
between  that  which  breathes  and  moves  and  ^s,  and  that 
which  life  animates  not  nor  mortality  knows,  —  annihilates 
falsehood,  and  chills  even  self-delusion  into  awe.  Come, 
then,  and  look  upon  the  picture  of  a  past  day  and  of  a  gone 
being,  without  apprehension  of  deceit ;  and  as  the  shadows 
and  lights  of  a  checkered  and  wild  existence  flit  before  you, 
watch  if  in  your  own  hearts  there  be  aught  which  mirrors 
the  reflection. 

Morton  Devereux. 


NOTE  TO  THE  PRESENT   EDITION  (1852). 


If  this  work  possess  any  merit  of  a  Narrative  order,  it 
will  perhaps  be  found  in  its  fidelity  to  the  characteristics 
of  an  Autobiography.  The  reader  must,  indeed,  comply 
with  the  condition  exacted  from  his  imagination  and  faith ; 
that  is  to  say,  he  must  take  the  hero  of  the  story  upon  the 
terms  for  which  Morton  Devereux  himself  stipulates  ;  and 
regard  the  supposed  Count  as  one  who  lived  and  wrote  in 
the  last  century,  but  who  (dimly  conscious  that  the  tone 
of  his  mind  harmonized  less  with  his  own  age  than  with 
that  which  was  to  come)  left  his  biography  as  a  legacy  to 
the  present.  This  assumption  (which  is  not  an  unfair 
one)  liberally  conceded,  and  allowed  to  account  for  occa- 
sional anachronisms  in  sentiment,  Morton  Devereux  will 
be  found  to  write  as  a  man  who  is  not  constructing  a  ro- 
mance, but  narrating  a  life.  He  gives  to  Love,  its  joy  and 
its  sorrow,  its  due  share  in  an  eventful  and  passionate  ex- 
istence ;  but  it  is  the  share  of  biography,  not  of  fiction. 
He  selects  from  the  crowd  of  personages  with  whom  he  is 
brought  into  contact,  not  only  those  who  directly  influence 
his  personal  destinies,  but  those  of  whom  a  sketch  or  an 
anecdote  would  appear  to  a  biographer  likely  to  have  in- 
terest for  posterity.  Louis  XIV.,  the  Regent  Orleans, 
Peter  the  Great,  Lord  Bolingbroke,  and  others  less  emi- 
nent, but  still  of  mark  in  their  own  day,  if  growing  obscure 
to  ours,  are  introduced  not  for  the  purposes  and  agencies 


xu  NOTE   TO   THE   PRESENT   EDITION. 

of  fiction,  but  as  an  autobiographer's  natural  illustrations 
of  the  men  and  manners  of  his  time. 

And  here  be  it  pardoned  if  I  add  that  so  minute  an  atten- 
tion has  been  paid  to  accuracy  that  even  in  petty  details, 
and  in  relation  to  historical  characters  but  slightly  known 
to  the  ordinary  reader,  a  critic  deeply  acquainted  with  the 
memoirs  of  the  age  will  allow  that  the  novelist  is  always 
merged  in  the  narrator. 

Unless  the  Author  has  failed  more  in  his  design  than,  on 
revising  the  work  of  his  early  youth  with  the  comparatively 
impartial  eye  of  maturer  judgment,  he  is  disposed  to  con- 
cede, Morton  Devereux  will  also  be  found  with  that  marked 
individuality  of  character  which  distinguishes  the  man  who 
has  lived  and  laboured  from  the  hero  of  romance.  He  ad- 
mits into  his  life  but  few  passions  ;  those  are  tenacious  and 
intense  :  conscious  that  none  who  are  around  him  will 
sympathize  with  his  deeper  feelings,  he  veils  them  under 
the  sneer  of  an  irony  which  is  often  affected  and  never 
mirthful.  Wherever  we  find  him,  after  surviving  the  brief 
episode  of  love,  we  feel  —  though  he  does  not  tell  us  so  — 
that  he  is  alone  in  the  world.  He  is  represented  as  a  keen 
observer  and  a  successful  actor  in  the  busy  theatre  of  man- 
kind, precisely  in  proportion  as  no  cloud  from  the  heart 
obscures  the  cold  clearness  of  the  mind.  In  the  scenes  of 
pleasure  there  is  no  joy  in  his  smile  ;  in  the  contests  of  am- 
bition there  is  no  quicker  beat  of  the  pulse.  Attaining  in 
the  prime  of  manhood  such  position  and  honour  as  would 
first  content  and  then  sate  a  man  of  this  mould,  he  has 
nothing  left  but  to  discover  the  vanities  of  this  world  and 
to  ponder  on  the  hopes  of  the  next ;  and,  his  last  passion 
dying  out  in  the  retribution  that  falls  on  his  foe,  he  finally 
sits  down  in  retirement  to  rebuild  the  ruined  home  of  his 
youth,  —  unconscious  that  to  that  solitude  the  Destinies 
have  led  him  to  repair  the  waste  and  ravages  of  his  own 
melancholy  soul. 


NOTE   TO   THE   PRESENT   EDITION.  Xiil 

But  while  outward  Dramatic  harmonies  between  cause 
and  effect,  and  the  proportionate  agencies  which  characters 
introduced  in  the  Drama  bring  to  bear  upon  event  and 
catastrophe,  are  carefully  shunned,  —  as  real  life  does  for 
the  most  part  shun  them,  —  yet  there  is  a  latent  coherence 
in  all  that,  by  influencing  the  mind,  do,  though  indirectly, 
shape  out  the  fate  and  guide  the  actions. 

Dialogue  and  adventures  which,  considered  dramatically, 
would  be  episodical, —  considered  biographically,  will  be 
found  essential  to  the  formation,  change,  and  development 
of  the  narrator's  character.  The  grave  conversations  with 
Bolingbroke  and  Richard  Cromwell,  the  light  scenes  in 
London  and  at  Paris,  the  favour  obtained  with  the  Czar  of 
Russia,  are  all  essential  to  the  creation  of  that  mixture  of 
wearied  satiety  and  mournful  thought  which  conducts  the 
Probationer  to  the  lonely  spot  in  which  he  is  destined  to 
learn  at  once  the  mystery  of  his  past  life  and  to  clear  his 
reason  from  the  doubts  that  had  obscured  the  future 
world. 

Viewing  the  work  in  this  more  subtile  and  contemplative 
light,  the  reader  will  find  not  only  the  true  test  by  which 
to  judge  of  its  design  and  nature,  but  he  may  also  recognize 
sources  of  interest  in  the  story  which  might  otherwise  have 
been  lost  to  him  ;  and  if  so,  the  Author  will  not  be  without 
excuse  for  this  criticism  upon  the  scope  and  intention  of 
his  own  work.  For  it  is  not  only  the  privilege  of  an  artist, 
but  it  is  also  sometimes  his  duty  to  the  principles  of  Art, 
to  place  the  spectator  in  that  point  of  view  wherein  the 
light  best  falls  upon  the  canvas.  "  Do  not  place  yourself 
there,"  says  the  painter  ;  "to  judge  of  my  composition  you^ 
must  stand  where  I  place  you." 


CONTENTS. 


Boofe  I. 

CHAPTER  L 


Page 
Of  the  Hero's  Birth  and  Parentage.  —  Nothing  can  differ  more  from  the 

End  uf  Tilings  than  their  Beginning 1 

CHAPTER   11. 
A  Family  Consultation.  —  A  Priest,  and  an  Era  in  Life 5 

CHAPTER   III. 

A  Change  in  Conduct  and  in  Character :  our  evil  Passions  wiU  some- 
times produce  good  Effects ;  and  on  the  contrary,  an  Alteration  for 
the  better  in  Manners  will,  not  unfrequeatly,  have  amongst  its 
Causes  a  little  Corruption  of  Mind ;  for  the  Feelings  are  so  blended 
that,  in  suppressing  those  disagreeable  to  others,  we  often  suppress 
those  which  are  amiablejn  themselves 10 

CHAPTER  IV. 

A  Contest  of  Art  and  a  League  of  Friendship.  —  Two  Characters  in 
mutual  Iguorance  of  each  other,  and  the  Reader  no  wiser  than 
either  of  them , 21 

CHAPTER  V. 
Rural  Hospitality.  —  An  extraordinary  Guest.  —  A  Fine  Gentleman  is 
not  necessarily  a  Fool 27 

CHAPTER   VI. 
A  Dialogue,  which  might  be  dull  if  it  were  longer 32 

CHAPTER  VII. 

A  Change  of  Prospects.  —  A  new  Insight  into  the  Character  of  the  Hero. 

—  A  Conference  between  two  Brothers 35 


XVI  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

Page 
First  Love 41 

CHAPTER  IX. 
A  Discovery  and  a  Departure 54 

CHAPTER  X. 

A  very  short  Chapter,  —  containing  a  Valet 60 

CHAPTER   XL 

The  Hero  acquits  himself  honourably  as  a  Coxcomb.  —  A  Fine  Lady  of 
the  Eighteenth  Century,  and  a  fashionable  Dialogue  ;  the  Substance 
of  fashionable  Dialogue  being  in  aU  Centuries  the  same    ....      62 

CHAPTER  XII. 

The  Abbe's  Return.  —  A  Sword,  and  a  Soliloquy 69 

CHAPTER    XIII. 
A  mysterious  Letter.  —  A  Duel.  — The  Departure  of  one  of  the  Family      72 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
Being  a  Chapter  of  Trifles 82 

CHAPTER  XV. 

The  Mother  and  Son.  —  Virtue  should  be  the  Sovereign  of  the  Feelings, 

not  their  Destroyer 84 


315oofe  II. 

CHAPTER  I. 

The  Hero  in  London.  —  Pleasure  is  often  the  shortest,  as  it  is  the  earlie.st 
road  to  Wisdom,  and  we  may  say  of  tlie  "World  wliat  Zeal-of-the- 
Land-Busy  say.?  of  the  Pig-Booth,  "  We  escape  so  much  of  the 
other  Vanities  by  oui  early  Entering  " 90 

CHAPTER  IL 
Gay  Scenes  and  Conversations.  —  The  New  Exchange  and  the  Puppet- 

Show.  —  The  Actor,  the  Sexton,  and  the  Beauty 95 


CONTENTS.  xvii 

CHAPTER  UI. 

Page 

More  Lions ^^^ 

CHAPTER  IV. 
An  intellectual  Adventure 106 

CHAPTER  V. 

The  Beau  in  his  Den,  and  a  Philosoplier  discovered 109 

CHAPTER   VI. 

A  universal  Genius.  —  Pericles  turned  Barber.  —  Names  of  Beauties  in 

171— .  —  The  Toasts  of  the  Ivit-Cat  Club 119 

CHAPTER  VII. 

A  Dialogue  of  Sentiment  succeeded  by  tlie  Sketch  of  a  Character,  in 
whose  Eyes  Sentiment  was  to  Wise  Men  what  Religion  is  to  Fools ; 
namely,  a  Subject  of  Ridicule 123 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

Lightly   won,    lightly   lost.  —  A    Dialogue   of    equal    Instruction   and 

Amusement.  —  A  Visit  to  Sir  Godfrey  Kueller 130 

CHAPTER   IX. 

A  Development  of  Character,  and  a  long  Letter ;  a  Chapter,  on  the 

whole,  more  important  than  it  seems 135 

CHAPTER  X. 

Being  a  short  Chapter,  containing  a  most  important  Event  ....     144 

CHAPTER  XL 

Containing  more  than  any  other  Chapter  in  the  Second  Book  of  this 

History 149 


515oofe  III. 

CHAPTER   I. 

Wherein  the  History  makes  great  Progress  and  is  marked  by  one  impor- 
tant Event  in  Human  Life  169 

6 


xviii  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  11. 

Love ;  Parting  ;  a  Death-Bed.  —  After  all  Human  Nature  is  a  beautiful 
Fabric ;  aud  even  its  Imperfections  are  not  odious  to  him  who  has 
studied  the  Science  of  its  Architecture,  aud  formed  a  reverent 
Estimate  of  its  Creator 181 

CHAPTER  in. 
A  great  Change  of  Prospects 191 

CHAPTER   IV. 

Au  Episode.  —  The  Son  of  the  Greatest  Man  who  (one  only  excepted) 
ever  rose  to  a  Throne,  but  by  uo  means  of  the  Greatest  Man  (save 
one)  who  ever  existed 198 

CHAPTER  V. 

In  which  the  Hero  shows  Decision  on  more  Points  than  one.  —  More  of 

Isora's  Character  is  developed 207 

CII.\PTER   VI. 
An  Unexpected  Meeting. — Conjecture  and  Anticipation 219 

CHAPTER  VII. 

The  Events  of  a  Single  Night.  —  Moments  make  the  Hues  in  which 

Years  are  coloured .     224 


ai5ooU  IV. 

CHAPTER   I. 
A  Re-entrance  into  Life  through  the  Ebon  Gate,  AflSiction 236 

CHAPTER  n. 
Ambitious  Projects 242 

CHAPTER   HI. 
The  real  Actors  Spectators  to  the  false  ones 252 

CHAPTER  IV. 

Paris.  —  A  Female  Politician,  and  an  Ecclesiastical  One.  —  Sundry  other 

Matters 255 


CONTENTS.  XIX 

CHAPTER  V. 

Page 
A  Meeting  of  Wits.  —  Conversation  gone  out  to  Supper  in  her  Dress  of 

Velvet  and  Jewels 262 

CHAFfER  VI. 
A  Court,  Courtiers,  and  a  King 272 

CHAPTER  VII. 

Reflections.  —  A  Soiree.  —  The  Appearance  of  one  important  in  the 
History.  —  A  Conversation  with  Madame  de  Balzac  highly  satisfac- 
tory and  cheering.  —  A  Rencontre  with  a  curious  old  Soldier.  — 
The  Extinction  of  a  once  great  Luminary 286 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

In  which  there  is  Reason  to  fear  that  Princes  are  not  invariably  free 

from  Human  Peccadilloes 303 

CHAPTER  IX. 
A  Prince,  an  Audience,  and  a  Secret  Embassy 308 

CHAPTER  X. 
Royal  Exertions  for  the  Good  of  the  People 316 

CHAPTER  XI. 
An  Interview 322 


IBook  V. 

CHAPTER  I. 
A   Portrait 327 

CHAPTER   n. 

The  Entrance  into  Petersburg.  —  A  Rencontre  with  an  inquisitive  and 

mysterious  Stranger.  —  Nothing  like  Travel 333 

CHAPTER  HI. 
The  Czar.  —  The  Czarina.  —  A  Feast  at  a  Russian  Nobleman's      .    .    .    339 


XX  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

Page 
Conversations  with  the   Czar.  —  If  Cromwell  was  the  greatest  Man 

(Caesar  excepted)  who  ever  rose  to  the  Supreme  Power,  Peter  was 

the  greatest  Man  ever  born  to  it 344 

CHAPTER  V. 

Return  to  Paris.  —  Interview  with  Bolingbroke.  —  A  gallant  Adventure. 
—  Affair  with  Dubois.  —  Public  Life  is  a  Drama,  in  which  private 
Vices  generally  play  the  Part  of  the  Scene-shifters 350 

CHAPTER  VT. 
A  long  Interval  of  Years.  —  A  Change  of  Mind  and  its  Causes    .    .     .    362 


llBoofe  VI. 

CHAPTER  I. 

The  Retreat 374 

CHAPTER  II. 

The  Victory 379 

CHAPTER  IIL 

The  Hermit  of  the  Well 382 

CHAPTER  IV. 
The  Solution  of  many  IMysteries.  —  A  dark  View  of  the  Life  and  Nature 

of  Man 396 

CHAPTER  V. 

In  which  the  History  makes  a  great  Stride  towards  the  final  Catastrophe. 

—  The  Return  to  England,  and  the  Visit  to  a  Devotee 427 

CHAPTER  VI. 
The  Retreat  of  a  celebrated  Man,  and  a  Visit  to  a  great  Poet   ....    435 

CHAPTER  Vn. 
The  Plot  approaches  its  Denouement -147 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
The  Catastrophe '^^^ 

Conclusion ^'^ 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Pack 

IsOKA  IN  THE  Gakden Frontispiece 

The  Castle  Cave ' 46 

Lady  Hasselton 100 

ISORA   AND   DeVEKEUX   AT   THE    WiNDOW 230 

The  Hermit  of  the  Well 391 


DEVEEEUX. 


BOOK    I. 


CHAPTER  I. 

OF  THE  hero's  BIRTH  AND  PARENTAGE.  —  NOTHING  CAN 
DIFFER  MORE  FROM  THE  END  OF  THINGS  THAN  THEIR 
BEGINNING. 

My  grandfather,  Sir  Arthur  Devereux  (peace  be  with  his 
ashes!)  was  a  noble  okl  knight  and  cavalier,  possessed  of  a 
property  sufficiently  large  to  have  maintained  in  full  dignity 
half  a  dozen  peers,  —  such  as  peers  have  been  since  the  days 
of  the  first  James.  Nevertheless,  my  grandfather  loved  the 
equestrian  order  better  than  the  patrician,  rejected  all  offers 
of  advancement,  and  left  his  posterity  no  titles  but  those  to 
his  estate. 

Sir  Arthur  had  two  children  by  wedlock, —  both  sons;  at 
his  death,  my  father,  the  younger,  bade  adieu  to  the  old  hall 
and  his  only  brother,  prayed  to  the  grim  portraits  of  his  an- 
cestors to  inspire  him,  and  set  out  —  to  join  as  a  volunteer  the 
armies  of  that  Louis,  afterwards  surnamed  le  grand.  Of  him 
I  shall  say  but  little ;  the  life  of  a  soldier  has  only  two  events 
worth  recording, — his  first  campaign  and  his  last.  My  uncle 
did  as  his  ancestors  had  done  before  him,  and,  cheap  as  the 
dignity  had  grown,  went  up  to  court  to  be  knighted  by 
Charles  II.  He  was  so  delighted  with  what  he  saw  of  the 
metropolis  that  he  forswore  all  intention  of  leaving  it,  took 
to  Sedley  and  champagne,  flirted  with  Xell  Gwynne,  lost 
double  the  value  of  his  brother's  portion  at  one  sitting  to  the 

1 


2  DEVEREUX. 

chivalrous  Grammont,  wrote  a  comedy  corrected  by  Etherege, 
and  took  a  wife  recommended  by  Kochester,  The  wife 
brought  him  a  child  six  months  after  marriage,  and  the  infant 
was  born  on  the  same  day  the  comedy  was  acted.  Luckily 
for  the  honour  of  the  house,  my  uncle  shared  the  fate  of 
Plemneus,  king  of  S  icy  on,  and  all  the  offspring  he  ever  had 
(that  is  to  say,  the  child  and  the  play)  "died  as  soon  as  they 
were  born."  My  uncle  was  now  only  at  a  loss  what  to  do 
with  his  wife, — that  remaining  treasure,  whose  readiness  to 
oblige  him  had  been  so  miraculously  evinced.  She  saved  him 
the  trouble  of  long  cogitation,  an  exercise  of  intellect  to  which 
he  was  never  too  ardently  inclined.  There  was  a  gentleman 
of  the  court,  celebrated  for  his  sedateness  and  solemnity ;  my 
aunt  was  piqued  into  emulating  OrjDheus,  and,  six  weeks  after 
her  confinement,  she  put  this  rock  into  motion, — they  eloped. 
Poor  gentleman!  it  must  have  been  a  severe  trial  of  patience 
to  a  man  never  known  before  to  transgress  the  very  slowest 
of  all  possible  walks,  to  have  had  two  events  of  the  most  rapid 
nature  happen  to  him  in  the  same  week :  scarcely  had  he  re- 
covered the  shock  of  being  run  away  with  by  my  aunt,  before, 
terminating  forever  his  vagrancies,  he  was  run  through  by 
my  uncle.  The  wits  made  an  epigram  upon  the  event,  and 
my  uncle,  who  was  as  bold  as  a  lion  at  the  point  of  a  sword, 
was,  to  speak  frankly,  terribly  disconcerted  by  the  point  of 
a  jest.  He  retired  to  the  country  in  a  fit  of  disgust  and  gout. 
Here  his  natural  goodness  soon  recovered  the  effects  of  the 
artificial  atmosphere  to  which  it  had  been  exposed,  and  he 
solaced  himself  by  righteously  governing  domains  worthy  of 
a  prince,  for  the  mortifications  he  had  experienced  in  the 
dishonourable  career  of  a  courtier. 

Hitherto  I  have  spoken  somewhat  slightingly  of  my  uncle, 
and  in  his  dissipation  he  deserved  it,  for  he  was  both  too  hon- 
est and  too  simple  to  shine  in  that  galaxy  of  prostituted  genius 
of  which  Charles  II.  was  the  centre.  But  in  retirement  he 
was  no  longer  the  same  person;  and  I  do  not  think  that  the 
elements  of  human  nature  could  have  furnished  forth  a  more 
amiable  character  than  Sir  William  Devereux  presiding  at 
Christmas  over  the  merriment  of  his  great  hall. 


DEYEREUX.  6 

Good  old  man!  his  very  defects  Tvere  what  we  loved  best  in 
him :  vanity  was  so  mingled  with  good-nature,  that  it  became 
graceful,  and  we  reverenced  one  the  most,  while  we  most 
smiled  at  the  other. 

One  peculiarity  had  he  which  the  age  he  had  lived  in  and 
his  domestic  history  rendered  natural  enough;  namely,  an 
exceeding  distaste  to  the  matrimonial  state :  early  marriages 
were  misery,  imprudent  marriages  idiotism,  and  marriage,  at 
the  best,  he  was  wont  to  say,  with  a  kindling  eye  and  a  height- 
ened colour,  marriage  at  the  best  was  the  devil !  Yet  it  must 
not  be  supposed  that  Sir  William  Devereux  was  an  ungallant 
man.  On  the  contrary,  never  did  the  beau  sexe  have  a  hum- 
bler or  more  devoted  servant.  As  nothing  in  his  estimation 
was  less  becoming  to  a  wise  man  than  matrimony,  so  noth- 
ing was  more  ornamental  than  flirtation. 

He  had  the  old  man's  weakness,  garrulity;  and  he  told 
the  wittiest  stories  in  the  world,  without  omitting  anything 
in  them  but  the  point.  This  omission  did  not  arise  from  the 
want  either  of  memory  or  of  humour ;  but  solely  from  a  de- 
ficiency in  the  malice  natural  to  all  jesters.  He  could  not 
persuade  his  lips  to  repeat  a  sarcasm  hurting  even  the  dead 
or  the  ungrateful;  and  when  he  came  to  the  drop  of  gall 
which  should  have  given  zest  to  the  story,  the  milk  of  hu- 
man kindness  broke  its  barrier,  despite  of  himself, —  and 
washed  it  away.  He  was  a  fine  wreck,  a  little  prematurely 
broken  by  dissipation,  but  not  perhaps  the  less  interesting 
on  that  account;  tall,  and  somewhat  of  the  jovial  old  English 
girth,  with  a  face  where  good-nature  and  good  living  mingled 
their  smiles  and  glow.  He  wore  the  garb  of  twenty  years 
back,  and  was  curiously  particular  in  the  choice  of  his  silk 
stockings.  Between  you  and  me,  he  was  not  a  little  vain  of 
his  leg,  and  a  compliment  on  that  score  was  always  sure  of  a 
gracious  reception. 

The  solitude  of  my  uncle's  household  was  broken  by  an 
invasion  of  three  boys, —  none  of  the  quietest, — and  their 
mother,  who,  the  gentlest  and  saddest  of  womankind,  seemed  to 
follow  them,  the  emblem  of  that  primeval  silence  from  which 
all  noise  was  born.     These  three  boys  were  my  two  brothers 


4  DEVEREUX. 

and  myself.  My  father,  who  had  conceived  a  strong  personal 
attachment  for  Louis  XIV.,  never  quitted  his  service,  and 
the  great  King  repaid  him  by  orders  and  favours  without 
number;  he  died  of  wounds  received  in  battle, —  a  Count  and 
a  Marshal,  full  of  renown  and  destitute  of  money.  He  had 
married  twice :  his  first  wife,  who  died  without  issue,  was  a 
daughter  of  the  noble  house  of  La  Tremouille;  his  second, 
our  mother,  was  of  a  younger  branch  of  the  English  race  of 
Howard.  Brought  up  in  her  native  country,  and  influenced 
by  a  primitive  and  retired  education,  she  never  loved  that  gay 
land  which  her  husband  had  adopted  as  his  own.  Upon  his 
death  she  hastened  her  return  to  England,  and  refusing,  with 
somewhat  of  honourable  pride,  the  magnificent  pension  which 
Louis  wished  to  settle  upon  the  widow  of  his  favourite,  came 
to  throw  herself  and  her  children  upon  those  affections  which 
she  knew  they  were  entitled  to  claim. 

My  uncle  was  unaffectedly  rejoiced  to  receive  us;  to  say 
nothing  of  his  love  for  my  father,  and  his  pride  at  the  honours 
the  latter  had  won  to  their  ancient  house,  the  good  gentleman 
was  very  well  pleased  with  the  idea  of  obtaining  four  new 
listeners,  out  of  whom  he  might  select  an  heir,  and  he  soon 
grew  as  fond  of  us  as  we  were  of  him.  At  the  time  of  our 
new  settlement,  I  had  attained  the  age  of  twelve;  my  second 
brother  (we  were  twins)  was  born  an  hour  after  me ;  my  third 
was  about  fifteen  months  younger.  I  had  never  been  the 
favourite  of  the  three.  In  the  first  place,  my  brothers  (my 
youngest  especially)  were  uncommonly  handsome,  and,  at  most, 
I  was  but  tolerably  good-looking:  in  the  second  place,  my 
mind  was  considered  as  much  inferior  to  theirs  as  my  body; 
I  was  idle  and  dull,  sullen  and  haughty,  —  the  only  wit  I  ever 
displayed  was  in  sneering  at  my  friends,  and  the  only  spirit, 
in  quarrelling  with  my  twin  brother;  so  said  or  so  thought  all 
who  saw  us  in  our  childhood;  and  it  follows,  therefore,  that 
I  was  either  very  unamiable  or  very  much  misunderstood. 

But,  to  the  astonishment  of  myself  and  my  relations,  my 
fate  was  now  to  be  reversed;  and  I  was  no  sooner  settled  at 
Devereux  Court  than  I  became  evidently  the  object  of  Sir 
William's   pre-eminent  attachment.      The  fact  was,  that   I 


DEVEKEUX.  5 

really  liked  both  the  knight  and  his  stories  better  than  my 
brothers  did ;  and  the  very  first  time  I  had  seen  my  uncle,  I 
had  couuuented  on  the  beauty  of  his  stocking,  and  envied  the 
constitution  of  his  leg ;  from  such  trifles  spring  affection !  In 
truth,  our  attachment  to  each  other  so  increased  that  we  grew 
to  be  constantly  together;  and  while  my  childish  anticipations 
of  the  world  made  me  love  to  listen  to  stories  of  courts  and  cour- 
tiers, my  uncle  returned  the  compliment  by  declaring  of  my 
wit,  as  the  angler  declared  of  the  River  Lea,  that  one  would 
find  enough  in  it,  if  one  would  but  angle  sufficiently  long. 

Nor  was  this  all;  my  uncle  and  myself  were  exceedingly 
like  the  waters  of  Alpheus  and  Arethusa,  —  nothing  was 
thrown  into  the  one  without  being  seen  very  shortly  after- 
wards floating  upon  the  other.  Every  witticism  or  legend 
Sir  William  imparted  to  me  (and  some,  to  say  truth,  were  a 
little  tinged  with  the  licentiousness  of  the  times  he  had  lived 
in),  I  took  the  first  opportunity  of  retailing,  whatever  might 
be  the  audience;  and  few  boys,  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  can 
boast  of  having  so  often  as  myself  excited  the  laughter  of  the 
men  and  the  blushes  of  the  women.  This  circumstance,  while 
it  aggravated  my  own  vanity,  delighted  my  uncle's;  and  as  I 
was  always  getting  into  scrapes  on  his  account,  so  he  was 
perpetually  bound,  by  duty,  to  defend  me  from  the  charges 
of  which  he  was  the  cause.  No  man  defends  another  long 
without  loving  him  the  better  for  it;  and  perhaps  Sir  William 
Devereux  and  his  eldest  nephew  were  the  onl^  allies  in  the 
world  who  had  no  jealousy  of  each  other. 


CHAPTEE   II. 

A   FAMILY    CONSULTATION. —  A    PRIEST,    AND    AN   ERA    IN    LIFE. 

"You  are  ruining  the  children,  my  dear  Sir  William,"  said 
my  gentle  mother,  one  day  when  I  had  been  particularly 
witty;  "and  the  Abbe  Montreuil  declares  it  absolutely  neces- 
sary that  they  should  go  to  school." 


6  DEVEREUX. 

"To  school!"  said  my  uncle,  who  was  caressing  his  right 
leg,  as  it  lay  over  his  left  knee, —  "to  school,  Madam!  you 
are  joking.     What  for,  pray  ?  " 

"  Instruction,  my  dear  Sir  William, "  replied  my  mother. 

"Ah,  ah;  I  forgot  that;  true,  true!"  said  my  uncle,  de- 
spondingly,  and  there  was  a  pause.  My  mother  counted  her 
rosary ;  my  uncle  sank  into  a  revery ;  my  twin  brother  pinched 
my  leg  under  the  table,  to  which  I  replied  by  a  silent  kick; 
and  my  youngest  fixed  his  large,  dark,  speaking  eyes  upon  a 
picture  of  the  Holy  Family,  which  hung  opposite  to  him. 

My  uncle  broke  the  silence ;  he  did  it  with  a  start. 

"Od's  fish.  Madam," — (my  uncle  dressed  his  oaths,  like 
himself,  a  little  after  the  example  of  Charles  II.)  —  "od's 
fish,  Madam,  I  have  thought  of  a  better  plan  than  that ;  they 
shall  have  instruction  without  going  to  school  for  it." 

"And  how.  Sir  William  ?" 

"  I  will  instruct  them  myself.  Madam,"  and  William  slapped 
the  calf  of  the  leg  he  was  caressing. 

My  mother  smiled. 

"Ay,  Madam,  you  may  smile;  but  I  and  my  Lord  Dorset 
were  the  best  scholars  of  the  age;  you  shall  read  my  play." 

"Do,  Mother,"  said  I,  "read  the  i^lay.  Shall  I  tell  her 
some  of  the  jests  in  it,  Uncle  ?  " 

My  mother  shook  her  head  in  anticipative  horror,  and  raised 
her  finger  reprovingly.  My  uncle  said  nothing,  but  winked 
at  me ;  I  understood  the  signal,  and  was  about  to  begin,  when 
the  door  opened,  and  the  Abbe  Montreuil  entered.  My  uncle 
released  his  right  leg,  and  my  jest  was  cut  off.  Nobody  ever 
inspired  a  more  dim,  religious  awe  than  the  Abbe  Montreuil. 
The  priest  entered  with  a  smile.  My  mother  hailed  the  en- 
trance of  an  ally. 

"Father,"  said  she,  rising,  "I  have  just  represented  to  my 
good  brother  the  necessity  of  sending  my  sons  to  school;  he 
has  proposed  an  alternative  which  I  will  leave  you  to  discuss 
with  him." 

"  And  what  is  it  ? "  said  Montreuil,  sliding  into  a  chair, 
and  patting  Gerald's  head  with  a  benignant  air. 

"To  educate  them  himself,"  answered  my  mother,  with  a 


DEVEREUX.  7 

sort  of  satirical  gravity.  My  uncle  moved  uneasily  in  his 
seat,  as  if,  for  the  first  time,  he  saw  something  ridiculous  in 
the  proposal. 

The  smile,  immediately  fading  from  the  thin  lips  of  the 
priest,  gave  way  to  an  expression  of  respectful  approbation. 
"An  admirable  plan,"  said  he  slowly,  "but  liable  to  some 
little  exceptions,  which  Sir  William  will  allow  me  to  point 
out." 

My  mother  called  to  us,  and  we  left  the  room  with  her. 
The  next  time  we  saw  my  uncle,  the  priest's  reasonings  had 
prevailed.  The  following  week  we  all  three  went  to  school. 
My  father  had  been  a  Catholic,  my  mother  was  of  the  same 
creed,  and  consequently  we  were  brought  up  in  that  unpopu- 
lar faith.  But  my  uncle,  whose  religion  had  been  sadly  un- 
dermined at  court,  was  a  terrible  caviller  at  the  holy  mysteries 
of  Catholicism ;  and  while  his  friends  termed  him  a  Protest- 
ant, his  enemies  hinted,  falsely  enough,  that  he  was  a  sceptic. 
"When  Montreuil  first  followed  us  to  Devereux  Court,  many 
and  bitter  were  the  little  jests  my  worthy  uncle  had  provided 
for  his  reception;  and  he  would  shake  his  head  with  a  notable 
archness  whenever  he  heard  our  reverential  description  of 
the  expected  guest.  But,  somehow  or  other,  no  sooner  had 
he  seen  the  priest  than  all  his  proposed  railleries  deserted 
him.  Not  a  single  witticism  came  to  his  assistance,  and  the 
calm,  smooth  face  of  the  ecclesiastic  seemed  to  operate  upon 
the  fierce  resolves  of  the  facetious  knight  in  the  same  manner 
as  the  human  eye  is  supposed  to  awe  into  impotence  the  ma- 
lignant intentions  of  the  ignobler  animals.  Yet  nothing  could 
be  blander  than  the  demeanour  of  the  Abbe  Montreuil ;  nothing 
more  worldly,  in  their  urbanity,  than  his  manner  and  address. 
His  garb  was  as  little  clerical  as  possible,  his  conversation 
rather  familiar  than  formal,  and  he  invariably  listened  to 
every  syllable  the  good  knight  uttered  with  a  countenance 
and  mien  of  the  most  attentive  respect. 

What  then  was  the  charm  by  which  the  singular  man  never 
failed  to  obtain  an  ascendency,  in  some  measure  allied  with 
fear,  over  all  in  whose  company  he  was  thrown  ?  This  was 
a  secret  my  uncle  never  could  solve,  and  which  only  in  later 


8  DEVEREUX. 

life  I  myself  was  able  to  discover.  It  was  partly  by  the 
magic  of  an  extraordinary  and  powerful  mind,  partly  by  an 
expression  of  manner,  if  I  may  use  such  a  phrase,  that 
seemed  to  sneer  most,  when  most  it  aifected  to  respect;  and 
partly  by  an  air  like  that  of  a  man  never  exactly  at  ease ;  not 
that  he  was  shy,  or  ungraceful,  or  even  taciturn, —  no!  it  was 
an  indescribable  embarrassment,  resembling  that  of  one  play- 
ing a  part,  familiar  to  him,  indeed,  but  somewhat  distasteful. 
This  embarrassment,  however,  was  sufficient  to  be  contagious, 
and  to  confuse  that  dignity  in  others,  which,  strangely  enough, 
never  forsook  himself. 

He  was  of  low  origin,  but  his  address  and  appearance  did 
not  betray  his  birth.  Pride  suited  his  mien  better  than  fa- 
miliarity; and  his  countenance,  rigid,  thoughtful,  and  cold, 
even  through  smiles,  in  expression  was  strikingly  command- 
ing. In  person  he  was  slightly  above  the  middle  standard ; 
and  had  not  the  texture  of  his  frame  been  remarkably  hard, 
wiry,  and  muscular,  the  total  absence  of  all  superfluous  flesh 
would  have  given  the  lean  gauntness  of  his  figure  an  appear- 
ance of  almost  spectral  emaciation.  In  reality,  his  age  did 
not  exceed  twenty-eight  years;  but  his  high  broad  forehead 
was  already  so  marked  with  line  and  furrow,  his  air  was  so 
staid  and  quiet,  his  figure  so  destitute  of  the  roundness  and 
elasticity  of  youth,  that  his  appearance  ahvays  impressed 
the  beholder  with  the  involuntary  idea  of  a  man  considerably 
more  advanced  in  life.  Abstemious  to  habitual  penance,  and 
regular  to  mechanical  exactness  in  his  frequent  and  severe 
devotions,  he  was  as  little  inwardly  addicted  to  the  pleasures 
and  pursuits  of  youth,  as  he  was  externally  possessed  of  its 
freshness  and  its  bloom. 

Nor  was  gravity  with  him  that  unmeaning  veil  to  imbecility 
which  Eochefoucauld  has  so  happily  called  "the  mystery  of 
the  body."  The  variety  and  depth  of  his  learning  fully  sus- 
tained the  respect  which  his  demeanour  insensibly  created. 
To  say  nothing  of  his  lore  in  the  dead  tongues,  he  possessed  a 
knowledge  of  the  principal  European  languages  besides  his 
own,  namely,  English,  Italian,  German,  and  Spanish,  not  less 
accurate  and  little  less  fluent  than  that  of  a  native ;  and  he  had 


DEVEREUX.  9 

not  only  gained  the  key  to  these  various  cofEers  of  intellectual 
wealth,  but  he  had  also  possessed  himself  of  their  treasures. 
He  had  been  educated  at  St.  Omer :  and,  young  as  he  was,  he 
had  already  acquired  no  inconsiderable  reputation  among  his ' 
brethren  of  that  illustrious  and  celebrated  Order  of  Jesus 
which  has  produced  some  of  the  worst  and  some  of  the  best 
men  that  the  Christian  world  has  ever  known, —  which  has, 
in  its  successful  zeal  for  knowledge,  and  the  circulation  of 
mental  light,  bequeathed  a  vast  debt  of  gratitude  to  poster- 
ity; but  which,  unhappily  encouraging  certain  scholastic  doc- 
trines, that  by  a  mind  at  once  subtle  and  vicious  can  be  easily 
perverted  into  the  sanction  of  the  most  dangerous  and  sys- 
tematized immorality,  has  already  drawn  upon  its  professors 
an  almost  universal  odium. 

So  highly  established  was  the  good  name  of  Montreuil  that 
when,  three  years  prior  to  the  time  of  which  I  now  speak,  he 
had  been  elected  to  the  office  he  held  in  our  family,  it  was 
scarcely  deemed  a  less  fortunate  occurrence  for  us  to  gain  so 
learned  and  so  pious  a  preceptor,  than  it  was  for  him  \o  ac- 
quire a  situation  of  such  trust  and  confidence  in  the  house- 
hold of  a  Marshal  of  France  and  the  especial  favourite  of 
Louis  XIV. 

It  was  pleasant  enough  to  mark  the  gradual  ascendency  he 
gained  over  my  uncle;  and  the  timorous  dislike  which  the 
good  knight  entertained  for  him,  yet  struggled  to  conceal. 
Perhaps  that  was  the  only  time  in  his  life  in  which  Sir  Wil- 
liam Devereux  was  a  hypocrite. 

Enough  of  the  priest  at  present;  I  return  to  his  charge.  To 
school  we  went:  our  parting  with  our  uncle  was  quite  pa- 
thetic; mine  in  especial.  "Hark  ye,  Sir  Count,"  whispered 
he  (I  bore  my  father's  title),  "hark  ye,  don't  mind  what  the 
old  priest  tells  you;  your  real  man  of  wit  never  wants  the 
musty  lessons  of  schools  in  order  to  make  a  figure  in  the 
world.  Don't  cramp  your  genius,  my  boy;  read  over  my  play, 
and  honest  George  Etherege's  'Man  of  Mode; '  they  '11  keep 
your  spirits  alive,  after  dozing  over  those  old  pages  which 
Homer  (good  soul!)  dozed  over  before.  God  bless  you,  my 
child;  write  to  me;  no  one,  not  even  your  mother,  shall  see 


10  DEVEREUX. 

your  letters;  and  —  and  be  sure,  my  fine  fellow,  that  yon 
don't  fag  too  hard.  The  glass  of  life  is  the  best  book,  and 
one's  natural  wit  the  only  diamond  that  can  write  legibly 
on  it." 

Such  were  my  uncle's  parting  admonitions ;  it  must  be  con- 
fessed that,  coupled  with  the  dramatic  gifts  alluded  to,  they 
were  likely  to  be  of  infinite  service  to  the  debutant  for  aca- 
demical honours.  In  fact.  Sir  William  Devereux  was  deeply 
impregnated  with  the  notion  of  his  time,  —  that  ability  and 
inspiration  were  the  same  thing,  and  that,  unless  you  were 
thoroughly  idle,  you  could  not  be  thoroughly  a  genius.  I 
verily  believe  that  he  thought  wisdom  got  its  gems,  as  Abu 
Zeid  al  Hassan  ^  declares  some  Chinese  philosophers  thought 
oysters  got  their  pearls,   namely,   by  gaping! 


CHAPTER   III. 

A  CHAISTGE  IN  CONDUCT  AND  IN  CHARACTER:  OUR  EVIL  PAS- 
SIONS WILL  SOMETIMES  PRODUCE  GOOD  EFFECTS;  AND  ON 
THE  CONTRARY,  AN  ALTERATION  FOR  THE  BETTER  IN  MAN- 
NERS WILL,  NOT  UNFREQUENTLY,  HAVE  AMONGST  ITS  CAUSES 
A  LITTLE  CORRUPTION  OF  MIND;  FOR  THE  FEELINGS  ARE 
SO  BLENDED  THAT,  IN  SUPPRESSING  THOSE  DISAGREEABLE 
TO  OTHERS,  WE  OFTEN  SUPPRESS  THOSE  WHICH  ARE  AMI- 
ABLE   IN    THEMSELVES. 

My  twin  brother,  Gerald,  was  a  tall,  strong,  handsome  boy, 
blessed  with  a  great  love  for  the  orthodox  academical  studies, 
and  extraordinary  quickness  of  ability.  Nevertheless,  he  was 
indolent  by  nature  in  things  which  were  contrary  to  his  taste ; 
fond  of  pleasure',  and,  amidst  all  his  personal  courage,  ran  a 
certain  vein  of  irresolution,  which  rendered  it  easy  for  a  cool 
and  determined  mind  to  awe  or  to  persuade  him.     I  cannot 

1  In  his  Commentary  on  the  account  of  China  by  two  Travellers. 


DEVEREUX.  11 

help  thinking,  too,  that,  clever  as  he  "was,  there  was  some- 
thing commonplace  in  the  cleverness ;  and  that  his  talent  was 
of  that  mechanical  yet  quick  nature  which  makes  wonderful 
boys  but  mediocre  men.  In  any  other  family  he  would  have 
been  considered  the  beauty;  in  ours  he  was  thought  the 
genius. 

My  youngest  brother,  Aubrey,  was  of  a  very  different  dis- 
position of  mind  and  frame  of  body ;  thoughtful,  gentle,  sus- 
ceptible, acute;  with  an  uncertain  bravery,  like  a  woman's, 
and  a  taste  for  reading,  that  varied  with  the  caprice  of  every 
hour.  He  was  the  beauty  of  the  three,  and  my  mother's  fa- 
vourite. Never,  indeed,  have  I  seen  the  countenance  of  man 
so  perfect,  so  glowingly  yet  delicately  handsome,  as  that  of 
Aubrey  Devereux.  Locks,  soft,  glossy,  and  twining  into 
ringlets,  fell  in  dark  profusion  over  a  brow  whiter  than  mar- 
ble ;  his  eyes  were  black  and  tender  as  a  Georgian  girl's ;  his 
lips,  his  teeth,  the  contour  of  his  face,  were  all  cast  in  the 
same  feminine  and  faultless  mould;  his  hands  would  have 
shamed  those  of  Madame  de  la  Tisseur,  whose  lover  offered 
six  thousand  marks  to  any  European  who  could  wear  her 
glove ;  and  his  figure  would  have  made  Titania  give  up  her 
Henchman,  and  the  King  of  the  Fairies  be  anything  but 
pleased  with  the  exchange. 

Such  were  my  two  brothers ;  or,  rather  (so  far  as  the  inter- 
nal qualities  are  concerned),  such  they  seemed  to  me;  for 
it  is  a  singular  fact  that  we  never  judge  of  our  near  kin- 
dred so  well  as  we  judge  of  others ;  and  I  appeal  to  any  one, 
whether,  of  all  people  by  whom  he  has  been  mistaken,  he 
has  not  been  most  often  mistaken  by  those  with  whom  he 
was  brought  up. 

I  had  always  loved  Aubrey,  but  they  had  not  suffered  him 
to  love  me:  and  we  had  been  so  little  together  that  we  had  in 
common  none  of  those  childish  remembrances  which  serve, 
more  powerfully  than  all  else  in  later  life,  to  cement  and 
soften  affection.  In  fact,  I  was  the  scapegoat  of  the  family. 
What  I  must  have  been  in  early  childhood  I  cannot  tell ;  but 
before  I  was  ten  years  old  I  was  the  object  of  all  the  despond- 
ency and  evil  forebodings  of  my  relations.     My  father  said  I 


12  DEVEREUX. 

laughed  at  la  gloire  et  le  grand  monarque  tlie  very  first  time 
he  attempted  to  explain  to  me  the  value  of  the  one  and  the 
greatness  of  the  other.  The  countess  said  I  had  neither  my 
father's  eye  nor  her  own  smile, —  that  I  was  slow  at  my  let- 
ters and  quick  with  my  tongue;  and  throughout  the  whole 
hou.se  nothing  was  so  favourite  a  topic  as  the  extent  of  my 
rudeness  and  the  venom  of  my  repartee.  Montreuil,  on  his 
entrance  into  our  family,  not  only  fell  in  with,  but  favoured 
and  fostered,  the  reigning  humour  against  me ;  whether  from 
that  divide  et  im-pera  system,  which  was  so  grateful  to  his 
temper,  or  from  the  mere  love  of  meddling  and  intrigue, 
which  in  him,  as  in  Aloeroni,  attached  itself  equally  to  petty 
as  to  large  circles,  was  not  then  clearly  apparent;  it  was  only 
certain  that  he  fomented  the  dissensions  and  widened  the 
breach  between  my  brothers  and  myself.  Alas!  after  all,  I 
believe  my  sole  crime  was  my  candour.  I  had  a  spirit  of 
frankness  which  no  fear  could  tame,  and  my  vengeance  for 
any  infantine  punishment  was  in  speaking  veraciously  of  my 
punishers.  Never  tell  me  of  the  pang  of  falsehood  to  the 
slandered:  nothing  is  so  agonizing  to  the  fine  skin  of  vanity 
as  the  application  of  a  rough  truth ! 

As  I  grew  older,  I  saw  my  power  and  indulged  it;  and, 
being  scolded  for  sarcasm,  I  was  flattered  into  believing  I  had 
wit ;  so  I  punned  and  jested,  lampooned  and  satirized,  till  I 
was  as  much  a  torment  to  others  as  I  was  tormented  myself. 
The  secret  of  all  this  was  that  I  was  unhappy.  Nobody  loved 
me :  I  felt  it  to  my  heart  of  hearts.  I  was  conscious  of  injus- 
tice, and  the  sense  of  it  made  me  bitter.  Our  feelings,  espe- 
cially in  youth,  resemble  that  leaf  which,  in  some  old  traveller, 
is  described  as  expanding  itself  to  warmth,  but  when  chilled, 
not  only  shrinking  and  closing,  but  presenting  to  the  spec- 
tator thorns  which  had  lain  concealed  upon  the  opposite  side 
of  it  before. 

With  my  brother  Gerald,  I  had  a  deadly  and  irreconcilable 
feud.  He  was  much  stouter,  taller,  and  stronger  than  my- 
self; and,  far  from  conceding  to  me  that  respect  which  I 
imagined  my  priority  of  birth  entitled  me  to  claim,  he  took 
every  opportunity  to  deride  my  pretensions,  and  to  vindicate 


DEVEREUX.  13 

the  cause  of  the  superior  strength  and  vigour  which  consti- 
tuted his  own.  It  would  have  done  your  heart  good  to  have 
seen  us  cuff  one  another,  we  did  it  with  such  zeal.  There  is 
nothing  in  human  passion  like  a  good  brotherly  hatred!  My 
mother  said,  with  the  most  feeling  earnestness,  that  she  used 
to  feel  us  fighting  even  before  our  birth :  we  certainly  lost  no 
time  directly  after  it.  Both  my  parents  were  secretly  vexed 
that  I  had  come  into  the  world  an  hour  sooner  than  my 
brother;  and  Gerald  himself  looked  upon  it  as  a  sort  of  jug- 
gle,—  a  kind  of  jockey  ship  by  which  he  had  lost  the  preroga- 
tive of  birthright.  This  very  early  rankled  in  his  heart,  and 
he  was  so  much  a  greater  favourite  than  myself  that,  instead 
of  rooting  out  so  unfortunate  a  feeling  on  his  part,  my  good 
parents  made  no  scruple  of  openly  lamenting  my  seniority. 
I  believe  the  real  cause  of  our  being  taken  from  the  domestic 
instructions  of  the  Abbe  (who  was  an  admirable  teacher)  and 
sent  to  school,  was  solely  to  prevent  my  uncle  deciding  every- 
thing in  my  favour.  Montreuil,  however,  accompanied  us  to 
our  academy,  and  remained  with  us  during  the  three  years  in 
which  we  were  perfecting  ourselves  in  the  blessings  of 
education. 

At  the  end  of  the  second  year,  a  prize  was  instituted  for 
the  best  proficient  at  a  very  severe  examination;  two  months 
before  it  took  place  we  went  home  for  a  few  days.  After 
dinner  my  uncle  asked  me  to  walk  with  him  in  the  park.  I 
did  so:  we  strolled  along  to  the  margin  of  a  rivulet  which 
ornamented  the  grounds.  There  my  uncle,  for  the  first  time, 
broke  silence. 

"Morton,"  said  he,  looking  down  at  his  left  leg,  "Morton, 
let  me  see;  thou  art  now  of  a  reasonable  age, —  fourteen  at 
the  least." 

"Fifteen,  if  it  please  you,  sir,"  said  I,  elevating  my  stature 
as  much  as  I  was  able. 

"Humph!  my  boy;  and  a  pretty  time  of  life  it  is,  too. 
Your  brother  Gerald  is  taller  than  you  by  two  inches." 

"But  I  can  beat  him  for  all  that,  uncle,"  said  I,  colouring, 
and  clenching  my  fist. 

My  uncle  pulled  down  his  right  ruffle.     "  'Gad  so,  Morton, 


14  DEVEREUX. 

you  're  a  brave  fellow,"  said  he;  "but  I  wish  you  were  less  of 
a  hero  and  more  of  a  scholar.  I  wish  you  could  beat  him  in 
Greek  as  well  as  in  boxing.  I  will  tell  you  what  Old  Rowley 
said, "  and  my  uncle  occupied  the  next  quarter  of  an  hour  with 
a  story.  The  story  opened  the  good  old  gentleman's  heart; 
my  laughter  opened  it  still  more.  "Hark  ye,  sirrah!"  said 
he,  pausing  abruptly,  and  grasping  my  hand  with  a  vigorous 
effort  of  love  and  muscle,  "hark  ye,  sirrah,  —  I  love  you, — 
'Sdeath,  I  do.  I  love  you  better  than  both  your  brothers,  and 
that  crab  of  a  priest  into  the  bargain ;  but  I  am  grieved  to  the 
heart  to  hear  what  I  do  of  you.  They  tell  me  you  are  the 
idlest  boy  in  the  school;  that  you  are  always  beating  your 
brother  Gerald,  and  making  a  scurrilous  jest  of  your  mother 
or  myself." 

"  Who  says  so  ?  who  dares  say  so  ?  "  said  I,  with  an  em- 
phasis that  would  have  startled  a  less  hearty  man  than  Sir 
William  Devereux.  "They  lie.  Uncle;  by  my  soul  they  do. 
Idle  I  am;  quarrelsome  with  my  brother  I  confess  myself; 
but  jesting  at  you  or  my  mother  —  never  —  never.  No,  no; 
yoxi,  too,  who  have  been  so  kind  to  me, —  the  only  one  who 
ever  was.  No,  no ;  do  not  think  I  could  be  such  a  wretch  :  " 
and  as  I  said  this  the  tears  gushed  from  my  eyes. 

My  good  uncle  was  exceedingly  affected.  "  Look  ye,  child, " 
said  he,  "I  do  not  believe  them,  'Sdeath,  not  a  word;  I 
would  repeat  to  you  a  good  jest  now  of  Sedley's,  'Gad,  I 
would,  but  I  am  really  too  much  moved  just  at  present.  I  tell 
you  what,  my  boy,  I  tell  you  what  you  shall  do:  there  is 
a  trial  coming  on  at  school  —  eh  ?  —  well,  the  Abbe  tells  me 
Gerald  is  certain  of  being  first,  and  you  of  being  last.  Now, 
Morton,  you  shall  beat  your  brother,  and  shame  the  Jesuit. 
There;  my  mind  's  spoken;  dry  your  tears,  my  boy,  and  I  '11 
tell  you  the  jest  Sedley  made :  it  was  in  the  Mulberry  Garden 
one  day  —  "     And  the  knight  told  his  story. 

I  dried  my  tears,  pressed  my  uncle's  hand,  escaped  from 
him  as  soon  as  I  was  able,  hastened  to  my  room,  and  surren- 
dered myself  to  reflection. 

When  my  uncle  so  good-naturedly  proposed  that  I  should 
conquer  Gerald  at  the  examination,  nothing  appeared  to  him 


DEVEREUX.  15 

more  easy;  he  was  pleased  to  think  I  had  more  talent  than 
my  brother,  and  talent,  according  to  his  creed,  was  the  only 
master-key  to  unlock  every  science.  A  problem  in  Euclid 
or  a  phrase  in  Pindar,  a  secret  in  astronomy  or  a  knotty  pas- 
sage in  the  Fathers,  were  all  riddles,  with  the  solution  of 
which  application  had  nothing  to  do.  One's  mother-wit  was  a 
precious  sort  of  necromancy,  which  could  pierce  every  rajs- 
tery  at  first  sight;  and  all  the  gifts  of  knowledge,  in  his  opin- 
ion, like  reading  and  writing  in  that  of  the  sage  Dogberry, 
"came  by  nature."  Alas!  I  was  not  under  the  same  pleasur- 
able delusion;  I  rather  exaggerated  than  diminished  the  diffi- 
culty of  my  task,  and  thought,  at  the  first  glance,  that  nothing 
short  of  a  miracle  would  enable  me  to  excel  my  brother. 
Gerald,  a  boy  of  natural  talent,  and,  as  I  said  before,  of  great 
assiduity  in  the  orthodox  studies, —  especially  favoured  too 
by  the  instruction  of  !Montreuil,  —  had  long  been  esteemed  the 
first  scholar  of  our  little  world ;  and  though  I  knew  that  with 
some  branches  of  learning  I  was  more  conversant  than  him- 
self, yet,  as  my  emulation  had  been  hitherto  solely  directed 
to  bodily  contention,  I  had  never  thought  of  contesting  with 
him  a  reputation  for  which  I  cared  little,  and  on  a  point  in 
which  I  had  been  early  taught  that  I  could  never  hope  to 
enter  into  any  advantageous  comparison  with  the  "  genius  "  of 
the  Devereuxs. 

A  new  spirit  now  passed  into  me :  I  examined  myself  with 
a  jealous  and  impartial  scrutiny;  I  weighed  my  acquisitions 
against  those  of  my  brother;  I  called  forth,  from  their  secret 
recesses,  the  unexercised  and  almost  unknown  stores  I  had 
from  time  to  time  laid  up  in  my  mental  armoury  to  moulder 
and  to  rust.  I  surveyed  them  with  a  feeling  that  they  might 
yet  be  polished  into  use;  and,  excited  alike  by  the  stimulus 
of  affection  on  one  side  and  hatred  on  the  other,  my  mind 
worked  itself  from  despondency  into  doubt,  and  from  doubt 
into  the  sanguineness  of  hope.  I  told  none  of  my  design;  I 
exacted  from  my  uncle  a  promise  not  to  betray  it ;  I  shut  my- 
self in  my  room;  I  gave  out  that  I  was  ill;  I  saw  no  one,  not 
even  the  Abbe;  I  rejected  his  instructions,  for  I  looked  upon 
him  as  an  enemy;  and,  for  the  two  months  before  my  trial,  I 


16  DEVEREUX. 

spent  night  and  day  in  an  unrelaxing  application,  of  which, 
till  then,   I  had  not  imagined  myself  capable. 

Though  inattentive  to  the  school  exercises,  I  had  never 
been  wholly  idle.  I  was  a  lover  of  abstruser  researches  than 
the  hackneyed  subjects  of  the  school,  and  we  had  really  re- 
ceived such  extensive  and  judicious  instructions  from  the 
Abbe  during  our  early  years  that  it  would  have  been  scarcely 
possible  for  any  of  us  to  have  fallen  into  a  thorough  distaste 
for  intellectual  pursuits.  In  the  examination  I  foresaw  that 
much  which  I  had  previously  acquired  might  be  profitably 
displayed, —  much  secret  and  recondite  knowledge  of  the  cus- 
toms and  manners  of  the  ancients,  as  well  as  their  literature, 
which  curiosity  had  led  me  to  obtain,  and  which  I  knew  had 
never  entered  into  the  heads  of  those  who,  contented  with 
their  reputation  in  the  customary  academical  routine,  had 
rarely  dreamed  of  wandering  into  less  beaten  paths  of  learn- 
ing. Fortunately  too  for  me,  Gerald  was  so  certain  of  success 
that  latterly  he  omitted  all  precaution  to  obtain  it;  and  as 
none  of  our  schoolfellows  had  the  vanity  to  think  of  contest- 
ing with  him,  even  the  Abbe  seemed  to  imagine  him  justified 
in  his  supineness. 

The  day  arrived.  Sir  William,  my  mother,  the  whole  aris- 
tocracy of  the  neighbourhood,  were  present  at  the  trial.  The 
Abbe  came  to  my  room  a  few  hours  before  it  commenced :  he 
found  the  door  locked. 

"  Ungracious  boy, "  said  he,  "  admit  me ;  I  come  at  the  ear- 
nest request  of  your  brother  Aubrey  to  give  you  some  hints 
preparatory  to  the  examination." 

"He  has  indeed  come  at  my  wish,"  said  the  soft  and  silver 
voice  of  Aubrey,  in  a  supiDlicating  tone :  "  do  admit  him,  dear 
Morton,  for  my  sake !  " 

"Go,"  said  I,  bitterly,  from  within,  "go:  ye  are  both  my 
foes  and  slanderers ;  you  come  to  insult  my  disgrace  before- 
hand; but  perhaps  you  will  yet  be  disappointed." 

"  You  will  not  open  the  door  ?  "  said  the  priest. 

"I  will  not;  begone." 

"He  will  indeed  disgrace  his  family,"  said  Montreuil, 
moving  away. 


DEVEREUX.  17 

"He  will  disgrace  himself,"  said  Aubrey,  dejectedly. 

I  laughed  scornfully.  If  ever  the  consciousness  of  strength 
is  pleasant,  it  is  when  we  are  thought  most  Aveak. 

The  greater  part  of  our  examination  consisted  in  the  an- 
swering of  certain  questions  in  Avriting,  given  to  us  in  the 
three  days  immediately  previous  to  the  grand  and  final  one; 
for  this  last  day  was  reserved  the  paper  of  composition  (as  it 
was  termed)  in  verse  and  prose,  and  the  personal  examination 
in  a  feAv  showy,  but  generally  understood,  subjects.  When 
Gerald  gave  in  his  paper,  and  answered  the  verbal  questions, 
a  buzz  of  admiration  and  anxiety  went  round  the  room.  His 
person  was  so  handsome,  his  address  so  graceful,  his  voice  so 
assured  and  clear,  that  a  strong  and  universal  sympathy  was 
excited  in  his  favour.  The  head-master  publicly  compli- 
mented him.  He  regretted  only  the  deficiency  of  his  pupil 
in  certain  minor  but  important  matters.  I  came  next,  for  I 
stood  next  to  Gerald  in  our  class.  As  I  walked  up  the  hall, 
I  raised  my  eyes  to  the  gallery  in  which  my  uncle  and  his 
party  sat.  I  saw  that  my  mother  was  listening  to  the  Abbe, 
whose  eye,  severe,  cold,  and  contemptuous,  was  bent  upon  me. 
But  my  uncle  leaned  over  the  railing  of  the  gallery,  with 
his  plumed  hat  in  his  hand,  which,  when  he  caught  my  look, 
he  waved  gently,  —  as  if  in  token  of  encouragement,  and  with 
an  air  so  kind  and  cheering,  that  I  felt  my  step  grow  prouder 
as  I  approached  the  conclave  of  the  masters. 

"Morton  Devereux,"  said  the  president  of  the  school,  in  a 
calm,  loud,  austere  voice,  that  filled  the  whole  hall,  "we  have 
looked  over  your  papers  on  the  three  previous  days,  and  they 
have  given  us  no  less  surprise  than  pleasure.  Take  heed  and 
time  how  you  answer  us  now." 

At  this  speech  a  loud  murmur  was  heard  in  my  uncle's 
party,  which  gradually  spread  round  the  hall.  I  again  looked 
up:  my  mother's  face  was  averted;  that  of  the  Abbe  was  im- 
penetrable ;  but  I  saw  my  uncle  wiping  his  eyes,  and  felt  a 
strange  emotion  creeping  into  my  own.  I  turned  hastily 
away,  and  presented  my  paper;  the  head-master  received  it, 
and,  putting  it  aside,  proceeded  to  the  verbal  examination. 

Conscious  of  the  parts  in  which  Gerald  was  likely  to  fail,  I 

2 


18  DEVEREUX. 

had  paid  especial  attention  to  tlie  minutiae  of  scholarship,  and 
my  forethought  stood  me  in  good  stead  at  the  present  moment. 
My  trial  ceased;  my  last  paper  was  read.  I  bowed,  and  re- 
tired to  the  other  end  of  the  hall.  I  was  not  so  popular  as 
Gerald;  a  crowd  was  assembled  round  him,  but  I  stood  alone. 
As  I  leaned  against  a  column,  with  folded  arms,  and  a  counte- 
nance which  I  felt  betrayed  little  of  my  internal  emotions, 
my  eye  caught  Gerald's.  He  was  very  pale,  and  I  could  see 
that  his  hand  trembled.  Despite  of  our  enmity,  I  felt  for 
him.  The  worst  passions  are  softened  by  triumph,  and  I 
foresaw  that  mine  was  at  hand. 

The  whole  examination  was  over.  Every  boy  had  passed 
it.  The  masters  retired  for  a  moment;  they  reappeared  and 
reseated  themselves.  The  first  sound  I  heard  was  that  of  my 
own  name.  I  was  the  victor  of  the  day:  I  was  more;  I  was 
one  hundred  marks  before  my  brother.  My  head  swam  round; 
my  breath  forsook  me.  Since  then  I  have  been  placed  in 
many  trials  of  life,  and  had  many  triumphs ;  but  never  was  I 
so  overcome  as  at  that  moment.  I  left  the  hall;  I  scarcely 
listened  to  the  applauses  with  which  it  rang.  I  hurried  to 
my  own  chamber,  and  threw  myself  on  the  bed  in  a  delirium 
of  intoxicated  feeling,  which  had  in  it  more  of  rapture  than 
anything  but  the  gratification  of  first  love  or  first  vanity  can 
bestow. 

Ah!  it  would  be  worth  stimulating  our  passions  if  it  were 
only  for  the  pleasure  of  remembering  their  effect;  and  all  vio- 
lent excitement  should  be  indulged  less  for  present  joy  than 
for  future  retrospection. 

My  uncle's  step  was  the  first  thing  which  intruded  on  my 
solitude. 

"Od's  fish,  my  boy,"  said  he,  crying  like  a  child,  "this  is 
fine  work, —  'Gad,  so  it  is.  I  almost  wish  I  were  a  boy  my- 
self to  have  a  match  with  you, —  faith  I  do,  —  see  what  it  is 
to  learn  a  little  of  life !  If  you  had  never  read  my  play,  do 
you  think  you  would  have  done  half  so  well  ?  —  no,  my  boy,  I 
sharpened  your  wits  for  you.  Honest  George  Etherege  and 
I, —  we  were  the  making  of  you!  and  when  you  come  to  be  a 
great  man,  and  are  asked  what  made  you  so,  you  shall  say, 


DEVEREUX.  19 

'My  uncle's  play; '  'Gad,  you  shall.  Faith,  boy,  never 
smile !  Od's  fish,  I  '11  tell  you  a  story  as  a  jjropos  to  the 
present  occasion  as  if  it  had  been  made  on  purpose.  Roches- 
ter and  I  and  Sedley  were  walking  one  day,  and  —  entre  notis 
—  awaiting  certain  appointments  —  hem !  —  for  my  part  I  was 
a  little  melancholy  or  so,  thinking  of  my  catastrophe,  —  that 
is,  of  my  play's  catastrophe;  and  so,  said  Sedley,  winking  at 
Eochester,  'Our  friend  is  sorrowful.'  'Truly,'  said  I,  seeing 
they  were  about  to  banter  me, —  for  you  know  they  were  arch 
fellows,  —  'truly,  little  Sid'  (we  called  Sedley  Sid),  'you  are 
greatly  mistaken ; '  —  you  see,  Morton,  I  was  thus  sharp  upon 
him  because  when  you  go  to  court  you  will  discover  that  it 
does  not  do  to  take  without  giving.  And  then  Rochester  said, 
looking  roguishly  towards  me,  the  wittiest  thing  against  Sedley 
that  ever  I  heard ;  it  was  the  most  celebrated  bon  mot  at  court 
for  three  weeks;  he  said  —  no,  boy,  od's  fish,  it  was  so  sting- 
ing I  can't  tell  it  thee;  faith,  I  can't.  Poor  Sid;  he  was  a 
good  fellow,  though  malicious, —  and  he's  dead  now.  I'm 
sorry  I  said  a  word  about  it.  Nay,  never  look  so  disap- 
pointed, boy.  You  have  all  the  cream  of  the  story  as  it  is. 
And  now  put  on  your  hat,  and  come  with  me.  I  've  got  leave 
for  you  to  take  a  walk  with  your  old  uncle." 

That  night,  as  I  was  undressing,  I  heard  a  gentle  rap  at  the 
door,  and  Aubrey  entered.  He  approached  me  timidly,  and 
then,  throwing  his  arms  round  my  neck,  kissed  me  in  silence. 
I  had  not  for  years  experienced  such  tenderness  from  him; 
and  I  sat  now  mute  and  surprised.  At  last  I  said,  with  the 
sneer  which  I  must  confess  I  usually  assumed  towards  those 
persons  whom  I  imagined  I  had  a  right  to  think  ill  of:  — 

"  Pardon  me,  my  gentle  brother,  there  is  something  porten- 
tous in  this  sudden  change.  Look  well  round  the  room,  and 
tell  me  at  your  earliest  leisure  what  treasure  it  is  that  you 
are  desirous  should  pass  from  my  possession  into  your  own." 

"Your  love,  Morton,"  said  Aubrey,  drawing  back,  but  ap- 
parently in  pride,  not  anger;  "your  love:  I  ask  nothing 
more." 

"Of  a  surety,  kind  Aubrey,"  said  I,  "the  favour  seems 
somewhat  slight  to  have  caused  your  modesty  such  delay  in 


20  DEVEREUX. 

requesting  it.  I  tliink  you  have  been  now  some  years  nerving 
your  mind  to  the  exertion." 

"  Listen  to  me,  Morton, "  said  Aubrey,  suppressing  his  emo- 
tion; "you  have  always  been  my  favourite  brother.  From 
our  lirst  childhood  my  heart  yearned  to  you.  Do  you  remem- 
ber the  time  when  an  enraged  bull  pursued  me,  and  you,  then 
only  ten  years  old,  placed  yourself  before  it  and  defended  me 
at  the  risk  of  your  own  life  ?  Do  you  think  I  could  ever  for- 
get that,  —  child  as  I  Avas  ?  —  never,  Morton,  never .'  " 

Before  I  could  answer  the  door  was  thrown  open,  and  the 
Abbe  entered.  "Children,"  said  he,  and  the  single  light  of 
the  room  shone  full  upon  his  unmoved,  rigid,  commanding 
features  —  "  children,  be  as  Heaven  intended  you, —  friends  and 
brothers.  Morton,  I  have  wronged  jou,  I  own  it;  here  is  my 
hand :  Aubrey,  let  all  but  early  love,  and  the  i:)resent  promise 
of  excellence  which  your  brother  displays,  be  forgotten." 

With  these  words  the  priest  joined  our  hands.  I  looked  on 
my  brother,  and  my  heart  melted.  I  flung  myself  into  his 
arms  and  wept. 

"  This  is  well, "  said  Montreuil,  surveying  us  with  a  kind  of 
grim  complacency,  and,  taking  my  brother's  arm,  he  blest  us 
both,  and  led  Aubrey  away. 

That  day  was  a  new  era  in  my  boyish  life.  I  grew  hence- 
forth both  better  and  worse.  Application  and  I  having  once 
shaken  hands  became  very  good  acquaintance.  I  had  hitherto 
valued  mj-self  upon  supplying  the  frailties  of  a  delicate  frame 
by  an  uncommon  agility  in  all  bodily  exercises.  I  now  strove 
rather  to  improve  the  deficiencies  of  my  mind,  and  became 
orderly,  industrious,  and  devoted  to  study.  So  far  so  well; 
but  as  I  grew  wiser,  I  |^rew  also  more  wary.  Candour  no 
longer  seemed  to  me  the  finest  of  virtues.  I  thought  before 
I  spoke:  and  second  thought  sometimes  quite  changed  the 
nature  of  the  intended  speech ;  in  short,  gentlemen  of  the  next 
century,  to  tell  you  the  exact  truth,  the  little  Count  Devereux 
became  somewhat  of  a  hyj)ocrite ! 


DEVEREUX.  21 


CHAPTER   IV. 

A    CONTEST    OF    ART    AND    A     LEAGUE     OF     FRIENDSHIP. TWO 

CHARACTERS    IN    MUTUAL    IGNORANCE    OF     EACH    OTHER,    AND 
THE    READER   NO    WISER    THAN    EITHER    OF    THEM. 

The  Abbe  was  now  particularly  courteous  to  me.  He  made 
Gerald  and  myself  breakfast  with  him,  and  told  us  nothing 
was  so  amiable  as  friendship  among  brothers.  We  agreed  to 
the  sentiment,  and,  like  all  philosophers,  did  not  agree  a  bit 
the  better  for  acknowledging  the  same  first  principles.  Per- 
haps, notwithstanding  his  fine  speeches,  the  Abbe  was  the  real 
cause  of  our  continued  want  of  cordiality.  However,  we  did 
not  fight  any  more :  we  avoided  each  other,  and  at  last  became 
as  civil  and  as  distant  as  those  mathematical  lines  which 
appear  to  be  taking  all  possible  pains  to  approach  one  another 
and  never  get  a  jot  the  nearer  for  it.  Oh!  your  civility  is 
the  prettiest  invention  possible  for  dislike!  Aubrey  and  I 
were  inseparable,  and  we  both  gained  by  the  intercourse.  I 
grew  more  gentle,  and  he  more  masculine ;  and,  for  my  part, 
the  kindness  of  his  temper  so  softened  the  satire  of  mine  that 
I  learned  at  last  to  smile  full  as  often  as  to  sneer. 

The  Abb6  had  obtained  a  wonderful  hold  over  Aubrey ;  he 
had  made  the  poor  boy  think  so  much  of  the  next  world,  that 
he  had  lost  all  relish  for  this.  He  lived  in  a  perpetual  fear 
of  offence:  he  was  like  a  chemist  of  conscience,  and  weighed 
minutiae  by  scruples.  To  play,  to  ride,  to  run,  to  laugh  at  a 
jest,  or  to  banquet  on  a  melon,  were  all  sins  to  be  atoned  for; 
and  I  have  found  (as  a  penance  for  eating  twenty-three  cher- 
ries instead  of  eighteen)  the  penitent  of  fourteen  standing, 
barefooted,  in  the  coldest  nights  of  winter,  upon  the  hearth- 
stones, almost  utterly  naked,  and  shivering  like  a  leaf,  be- 
neath the  mingled  effect  of  frost  and  devotion.  At  first  I 
attempted  to  wrestle  with  this  exceeding  holiness,  but  finding 


22  DEVEREUX. 

my  admonitions  received  with,  great  distaste  and  some  horror, 
I  suffered  my  brother  to  be  happy  in  his  own  way.  I  only 
looked  with  a  very  evil  and  jealous  eye  upon  the  good  Abbe, 
and  examined,  while  I  encouraged  them,  the  motives  of  his 
advances  to  myself.  What  doubled  my  suspicions  of  the 
purity  of  the  priest  was  my  perceiving  that  he  appeared  to 
hold  out  different  inducements  for  trusting  him  to  each  of  us, 
according  to  his  notions  of  our  respective  characters.  My 
brother  Gerald  he  alternately  awed  and  persuaded,  by  the  sole 
effect  of  superior  intellect.  With  Aubrey  he  used  the  mech- 
anism of  superstition.  To  me,  he,  on  the  one  hand,  never 
spoke  of  religion,  nor,  on  the  other,  ever  used  threats  or  per- 
suasion, to  induce  me  to  follow  any  plan  suggested  to  my 
adoption;  everything  seemed  to  be  left  to  my  reason  and  my 
ambition.  He  would  converse  with  me  for  hours  upon  the 
world  and  its  affairs,  speak  of  courts  and  kings,  in  an  easy 
and  unpedantic  strain ;  point  out  the  advantage  of  intellect  in 
acquiring  power  and  controlling  one's  species;  and,  whenever 
I  was  disposed  to  be  sarcastic  upon  the  human  nature  I  had 
read  of,  he  supported  my  sarcasm  by  illustrations  of  the  hu- 
man nature  he  had  seen.  We  were  both,  I  think  (for  myself 
I  can  answer),  endeavouring  to  pierce  the  real  nature  of  the 
other;  and  perhaps  the  talent  of  diplomacy  for  which,  years 
afterwards,  I  obtained  some  applause,  was  first  learnt  in  my 
skirmishing  warfare  with  the  Abbe  Montreuil. 

At  last,  the  evening  before  we  quitted  school  for  good  ar- 
rived. Aubrey  had  just  left  me  for  solitary  prayers,  and  I 
was  sitting  alone  by  my  fire,  when  Montreuil  entered  gently. 
He  sat  himself  down  by  me,  and,  after  giving  me  the  saluta- 
tion of  the  evening,  sank  into  a  silence  which  I  was  the  first 
to  break. 

"Pray,  Abbe,"  said  I,  "have  one's  j^ears  anything  to  do 
with  one's  age  ?  " 

The  priest  was  accustomed  to  the  peculiar  tone  of  my 
sagacious  remarks,   and  answered  dryly, — 

"Mankind  in  general  imagine  that  they  have." 

"Faith,  then,"  said  I,  "mankind  know  very  little  about  the 
matter.     To-day  I  am  at  school,    and  a  boy;    to-morrow  I 


DEVEREUX.  23 

leave  scliool ;  if  I  hasten  to  town  I  am  presented  at  court ;  and 
lo !  I  am  a  man ;  and  this  change  within  half-a-dozen  changes 
of  the  sun !  therefore,  most  reverend  father,  I  humbly  opine 
that  age  is  measured  by  events,  not  years." 

"And  are  you  not  happy  at  the  idea  of  passing  the  age  of 
thraldom,  and  seeing  arrayed  before  you  the  numberless  and 
dazzling  pomps  and  pleasures  of  the  great  world?"  said  Mon- 
treuil,  abruptly,  fixing  his  dark  and  keen  eye  upon  me. 

"I  have  not  yet  fully  made  up  my  mind  whether  to  be 
happy  or  not,"  said  I,   carelessly. 

"It  is  a  strange  answer;"  said  the  priest;  "but"  (after  a 
pause)  "you  are  a  strange  youth:  a  character  that  resembles 
a  riddle  is  at  your  age  uncommon,  and,  pardon  me,  unamiable. 
Age,  naturally  repulsive,  requires  a  mask;  and  in  every 
wrinkle  you  may  behold  the  ambush  of  a  scheme:  but  the 
heart  of  youth  should  be  open  as  its  countenance !  However, 
I  will  not  weary  you  with  homilies;  let  us  change  the  topic. 
Tell  me,  Morton,  do  j'ou  repent  having  turned  your  attention 
of  late  to  those  graver  and  more  systematic  studies  which 
can  alone  hereafter  obtain  you  distinction  ? " 

"No,  father,"  said  I,  with  a  courtly  bow,  "for  the  change 
has  gained  me  your  good  opinion." 

A  smile,  of  peculiar  and  undefinable  expression,  crossed  the 
thin  lips  of  the  priest;  he  rose,  walked  to  the  door,  and  saw 
that  it  was  carefully  closed.  I  expected  some  important 
communication,  but  in  vain;  pacing  the  small  room  to  and  fro, 
as  if  in  a  musing  mood,  the  Abbe  remained  silent,  till,  paus- 
ing opposite  some  fencing  foils,  which  among  various  matters 
(books,  papers,  quoits,  etc.)  were  thrown  idly  in  one  corner 
of  the  room,  he  said, — 

"  They  tell  me  that  you  are  the  best  fencer  in  the  school  — 
is  it  so  ?  " 

"I  hope  not,  for  fencing  is  an  accomplishment  in  which 
Gerald  is  very  nearly  my  equal,"  I  replied. 

"  You  run,  ride,  leap,  too,  better  than  any  one  else,  accord- 
ing to  the  votes  of  your  comrades  ? " 

"It  is  a  noble  reputation,"  said  I,  "in  which  I  believe  I  am 
only  excelled  by  our  huntsman's  eldest  son." 


24  DEVEREUX. 

"You  are  a  strange  youth,"  repeated  tlie  priest;  "no  pursuit 
seems  to  give  you  pleasure,  and  no  success  to  gratify  your  vanity. 
Can  you  not  think  of  any  triumph  which  would  elate  you  ?  " 

I  was  silent. 

"  Y"es,"  cried  Montreuil,  approaching  me, —  "yes,"  cried  he, 
"  I  read  your  heart,  and  I  respect  it ;  these  are  petty  competi- 
tions and  worthless  honours.  You  require  a  nobler  goal,  and 
a  more  glorious  reward.  He  who  feels  in  his  soul  that  Fate 
has  reserved  for  him  a  great  and  exalted  part  in  this  world's 
drama  may  reasonably  look  with  indifference  on  these  paltry 
rehearsals  of  common  characters." 

I  raised  my  eye,  and  as  it  met  that  of  the  priest,  I  was  ir- 
resistibly struck  with  the  proud  and  luminous  expression 
which  Montreuil's  look  had  assumed.  Perhaps  something 
kindred  to  its  nature  was  perceptible  in  my  own;  for,  after 
surveying  me  with  an  air  of  more  approbation  than  he  had 
ever  honoured  me  with  before,  he  grasped  my  arm  firmly,  and 
said,  "Morton,  you  knoAV  me  not;  for  many  years  I  have  not 
known  you:  that  time  is  past.  No  sooner  did  your  talents 
develop  themselves  than  I  was  the  first  to  do  homage  to  their 
power:  let  us  henceforth  be  more  to  each  other  than  we  have 
been;  let  us  not  be  pupil  and  teacher;  let  us  be  friends. 
Do  not  think  that  I  invite  you  to  an  unequal  exchange 
of  good  offices:  you  may  be  the  heir  to  wealth  and  a  dis- 
tinguished name;  I  may  seem  to  you  but  an  unknown  and 
undignified  priest;  but  the  authority  of  the  Almighty  can 
raise  up,  from  the  sheepfold  and  the  cotter's  shed,  a  power, 
which,  as  the  organ  of  His  own,  can  trample  upon  sceptres 
and  dictate  to  the  supremacy  of  kings.  And  / — /"  —  the 
priest  abruptly  paused,  checked  the  warmth  of  his  manner,  as 
if  he  thought  it  about  to  encroach  on  indiscretion,  and,  sink- 
ing into  a  calmer  tone,  continued,  "yes,  I,  Morton,  insignifi- 
cant as  I  appear  to  you,  can,  in  every  path  through  this 
intricate  labyrinth  of  life,  be  more  useful  to  your  desires  than 
you  can  ever  be  to  mine.  I  offer  to  you  in  my  friendship  a 
fervour  of  zeal  and  energy  of  power  which  in  none  of  your 
equals,  in  age  and  station,  you  can  hope  to  find.  Do  you 
accept  my  offer  ?  " 


DEVEREUX.  25 

"Can  you  doubt,"  said  I,  with  eagerness,  "that  I  wouhl 
avail  myself  of  the  services  of  any  man,  however  displeasing 
to  me,  and  worthless  in  himself  ?  How,  then,  can  I  avoid 
embracing  the  friendship  of  one  so  extraordinary  in  knowledge 
and  intellect  as  yourself  ?    I  do  embrace  it,  and  with  rapture." 

The  priest  pressed  my  hand.  "But,"  continued  he,  fixing 
his  eyes  upon  mine,  "all  alliances  have  their  conditions:  I 
require  implicit  confidence ;  and  for  some  years,  till  time  gives 
you  experience,  regard  for  your  interests  induces  me  also  to 
require  obedience.  Name  any  wish  you  may  form  for  worldly 
advancement,  opulence,  honour,  the  smile  of  kings,  the  gifts 
of  states,  and  —  I  —  I  will  pledge  myself  to  carry  that  wish 
into  effect.  Never  had  eastern  prince  so  faithful  a  servant 
among  the  Dives  and  Genii  as  Morton  Devereux  shall  find  in 
me :  but  question  me  not  of  the  sources  of  my  power ;  be  sat- 
isfied when  their  channel  wafts  you  the  success  you  covet. 
And,  more,  when  I  in  my  turn  (and  this  shall  be  but  rarely) 
request  a  favour  of  you,  ask  me  not  for  what  end  nor  hesitate 
to  adopt  the  means  I  shall  propose.  You  seem  startled;  are 
you  content  at  this  understanding  between  us,  or  will  you 
retract  the  bond  ?  " 

"My  father,"  said  I,  "there  is  enough  to  startle  me  in  your 
proposal ;  it  greatly  resembles  that  made  by  the  Old  Man  of 
the  Mountains  to  his  vassals,  and  it  would  not  exactly  suit  my 
inclinations  to  be  called  upon  some  morning  to  act  the  part  of 
a  private  executioner." 

The  priest  smiled.  "My  young  friend,"  said  he,  "those 
days  have  passed;  neither  religion  nor  friendship  requires  of 
her  votaries  sacrifices  of  blood.  But  make  yourself  easy; 
whenever  I  ask  of  you  what  offends  your  conscience,  even  in  a 
punctilio,  refuse  my  request.  With  this  exception,  what  say 
you  ?  " 

"  That  I  think  I  will  agree  to  the  bond :  but,  father,  I  am 
an  irresolute  person;  I  must  have  time  to  consider." 

"Be  it  so.  To-morrow,  having  surrendered  my  charge  to 
your  uncle,   I  depart  for  France." 

"For  France!"  said  I;  "and  how?  Surely  the  war  will 
prevent  your  passage." 


26  DEVEREUX. 

The  priest  smiled.  ]Si^othing  ever  displeased  me  more  than 
that  priest's  smile.  "  The  ecclesiastics,"  said  he,  "  are  the  am- 
bassadors of  Heaven,  and  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  wars  of 
earth.  I  shall  find  no  difficulty  in  crossing  the  Channel.  I 
shall  not  return  for  several  months,  perhaps  not  till  the  expi- 
ration of  a  year:  I  leave  you,  till  then,  to  decide  upon  the 
terms  I  have  proposed  to  you.  Meanwhile,  gratify  my  vanity 
by  employing  my  power;  name  some  commission  in  France 
which  you  wish  me  to  execute." 

"I  can  think  of  none, —  yet,  stay;  "  and  I  felt  some  curios- 
ity to  try  the  power  of  which  he  boasted, —  "I  hav^e  read  that 
kings  are  blest  with  a  most  accommodating  memory,  and  per- 
fectly forget  their  favourites  when  they  can  be  no  longer  use- 
ful. You  will  see,  perhaps,  if  my  father's  name  has  become 
a  Gothic  and  unknown  sound  at  the  court  of  the  Great  King. 
I  confess  myself  curious  to  learn  this,  though  I  can  have  no 
personal  interest  in  it." 

"Enough,  the  commission  shall  be  done.  And  now,  my 
child,  Heaven  bless  you!  and  send  you  many  such  friends  as 
the  humble  priest,  who,  whatever  be  his  failings,  has,  at  least, 
the  merit  of  wishing  to  serve  those  whom  he  loves." 

So  saying,  the  priest  closed  the  door.  Sinking  into  a  rev- 
ery,  as  his  footsteps  died  upon  my  ear,  I  muttered  to  myself; 
"  Well,  well,  my  sage  ecclesiastic,  the  game  is  not  over  yet ; 
let  us  see  if,  at  sixteen,  we  cannot  shuffle  cards,  and  play 
tricks  with  the  gamester  of  thirty.  Yet  he  may  be  in  ear- 
nest, and  faith  I  believe  he  is ;  but  I  must  look  well  before  I 
leap,  or  consign  my  actions  into  such  spiritual  keeping. 
However,  if  the  worst  come  to  the  worst,  if  I  do  make  this 
compact,  and  am  deceived, —  if,  above  all,  I  am  ever  seduced, 
or  led  blindfold  into  one  of  those  snares  which  priestcraft 
sometimes  lays  to  the  cost  of  honour, —  whj-,  I  shall  have  a 
sword,  which  I  shall  never  be  at  a  loss  to  use,  and  it  can  find 
its  way  through  a  priest's  gown  as  well  as  a  soldier's  corselet." 

Confess  that  a  youth  who  could  think  so  promptly  of  his 
sword  was  well  fitted  to  wear  one! 


DEVEREUX.  27 


CHAPTER  Y. 

KUKAL    HOSPITALITY. AN    EXTRAORDINARY   GUEST. A    FINE 

GENTLEMAN    IS   NOT   NECESSARILY   A   FOOL. 

We  were  all  three  (my  brotliers  and  myself)  precocious 
geniuses.  Our  early  instructions,  under  a  man  like  the  Abbe, 
at  once  learned  and  worldly,  and  the  society  into  which  we 
had  been  initiated  from  our  childhood,  made  us  premature 
adepts  in  the  manners  of  the  world ;  and  I,  in  especial,  flat- 
tered myself  that  a  quick  habit  of  observation  rendered  me  no 
despicable  profiter  by  my  experience.  Our  academy,  too,  had 
been  more  like  a  college  than  a  school;  and  we  had  enjoyed  a 
license  that  seemed  to  the  superficial  more  likely  to  benefit 
our  manners  than  to  strengthen  our  morals.  I  do  not  think, 
however,  that  the  latter  suffered  by  our  freedom  from  re- 
straint. On  the  contrary,  we  the  earlier  learned  that  vice,  but 
for  the  piquancy  of  its  unlawfulness,  would  never  be  so  cap- 
tivating a  goddess;  and  our  errors  and  crimes  in  after  life 
had  certainly  not  their  origin  in  our  wanderings  out  of 
academical  bounds. 

It  is  right  that  I  should  mention  our  prematurity  of  intel- 
lect, because,  otherwise,  much  of  my  language  and  reflections, 
as  detailed  in  the  first  book  of  this  history,  might  seem  ill 
suited  to  the  tender  age  at  which  they  occurred.  However, 
they  approach,  as  nearly  as  possible,  to  my  state  of  mind  at 
that  period;  and  I  have,  indeed,  often  mortified  my  vanity  in 
later  life  by  thinking  how  little  the  march  of  time  has  ripened 
my  abilities,  and  how  petty  would  have  been  the  intellectual 
acquisitions  of  manhood,  if  they  had  not  brought  me  some- 
thing like  content! 

My  uncle  had  always,  during  his  retirement,  seen  as  many 
people  as  he  could  assemble  out  of  the  "mob  of  gentlemen 
who  live  at  ease."  But,  on  our  quitting  school  and  becoming 
men,  he  resolved  to  set  no  bounds  to  his  hospitality.     His 


28  DEVEREUX. 

floors  were  literally  thrown  open ;  and  as  lie  was  by  far  the 
greatest  person  in  the  district  —  to  say  nothing  of  his  wines, 
and  his  French  cook  —  many  of  the  good  people  of  London 
did  not  think  it  too  great  an  honour  to  confer  upon  the 
wealthy  representative  of  the  Devereuxs  the  distinction  of 
their  company  and  compliments.  Heavens!  what  notable 
samples  of  court  breeding  and  furbelows  did  the  crane-neck 
coaches,  which  made  our  own  family  vehicle  look  like  a  gilt 
tortoise,  pour  forth  by  couples  and  leashes  into  the  great  hall ; 
while  my  gallant  uncle,  in  new  periwig  and  a  pair  of  silver- 
clocked  stockings  (a  present  from  a  ci-devant  fine  lady),  stood 
at  the  far  end  of  the  picture-gallery  to  receive  his  visitors 
with  all  the  graces  of  the  last  age. 

My  mother,  who  had  preserved  her  beauty  wonderfully,  sat 
in  a  chair  of  green  velvet,  and  astonished  the  courtiers  by 
the  fashion  of  a  dress  only  just  imported.  The  worthy  Coun- 
tess (she  had  dropped  m  England  the  loftier  distinction  of 
Madame  la  Marechale)  was  hoAvever  quite  innocent  of  any 
intentional  affectation  of  the  mode;  for  the  new  stomacher,  so 
admired  in  London,  had  been  the  last  alteration  in  female 
garniture  at  Paris  a  month  before  my  father  died.  Is  not  this 
"Fashion"  a  noble  divinity  to  possess  such  zealous  adher- 
ents ?  —  a  pitiful,  lackey -like  creature,  which  struts  through 
one  country  with  the  cast-off  finery  of  another! 

As  for  Aubrey  and  Gerald,  they  produced  quite  an  effect ; 
and  I  should  most  certainly  have  been  thrown  irrevocably 
into  the  background  had  I  not  been  born  to  the  good  fortune 
of  an  eldest  son.  This  was  far  more  than  sufficient  to  atone 
for  the  comparative  plainness  of  my  person ;  and  when  it  was 
discovered  that  I  was  also  Sir  William's  favourite,  it  is  quite 
astonishing  what  a  beauty  I  became !  Aubrey  Avas  declared 
too  effeminate;  Gerald  too  tall.  And  the  Duchess  of  Lack- 
land one  day,  when  she  had  placed  a  lean,  sallow  ghost  of  a 
daughter  on  either  side  of  me,  whispered  my  uncle  in  a  voice, 
like  the  aside  of  a  player,  intended  for  none  but  the  whole 
audience,  that  the  young  Count  had  the  most  imposing  air 
and  the  finest  eyes  she  had  ever  seen.  All  this  inspired  me 
with  courage,  as  well  as  contempt;  and  not  liking  to  be  be- 


DEVEREUX.  29 

liolden  solely  to  my  priority  of  birth  for  my  priority  of  dis- 
tinction, I  resolved  to  become  as  agreeable  as  possible.  If  I 
had  not  in  the  vanity  of  my  heart  resolved  also  to  be  "  myself 
alone,"  Fate  would  have  furnished  me  at  the  happiest  age  for 
successful  imitation  with  an  admirable  model. 

Time  rolled  on;  two  years  were  flown  since  I  had  left  school, 
and  ]\Iontreuil  was  not  yet  returned.  I  had  passed  the  age  of 
(nghteen,  when  the  whole  house,  which,  as  it  was  summer, 
when  none  but  cats  and  physicians  were  supposed  gifted  by 
Providence  with  the  jjower  to  exist  in  town,  was  uncommonly 
full, — the  whole  house,  I  say,  was  thrown  into  a  positive 
fever  of  expectation.  The  visit  of  a  guest,  if  not  of  greater 
consequence  at  least  of  greater  interest  than  any  who  had 
hitherto  honoured  my  uncle,  was  announced.  Even  the  young 
Count,  with  the  most  imposing  air  in  the  world  and  the  finest 
eyes,  was  forgotten  by  everybody  but  the  Duchess  of  Lack- 
land and  her  daughters,  who  had  just  returned  to  Devereux 
Court  to  observe  how  amazingly  the  Count  had  grown!  Oh! 
what  a  prodigy  wisdom  would  be,  if  it  were  but  blest  with  a 
memory  as  keen  and  constant  as  that  of  interest! 

Struck  with  the  universal  excitement,  I  went  to  my  uncle 
to  inquire  the  name  of  the  expected  guest.  My  uncle  was  oc- 
cupied in  fanning  the  Lady  Hasselton,  a  daughter  of  one  of 
King  Charles's  Beauties.  He  had  only  time  to  answer  me 
literally,  and  without  comment;  the  guest's  name  was  Mr.  St. 
John. 

I  had  never  conned  the  "Flying  Post,"  and  I  knew  nothing 
about  politics.  "Who  is  Mr.  St.  John?"  said  I;  my  uncle 
had  renewed  the  office  of  a  zephyr.  The  daughter  of  the 
Beauty  heard  and  answered,  "  The  most  charming  person  in 
England."  I  bowed  and  turned  away.  "How  vastly  explan- 
atory!" said  L  I  met  a  furious  politician,  "Who  is  INIr. 
St.  John?"   I  asked. 

"The  cleverest  man  in  England,"  answered  the  politician, 
hurrj'ing  olf  with  a  pamphlet  in  his  hand. 

"Nothing  can  be  more  satisfactory,"  thought  I.  Stopping 
a  coxcomb  of  the  first  water,  "  Who  is  Mr.  St.  John  ? "  I 
asked. 


30  DEVEREUX. 

"  The  finest  gentleman  in  England, "  answered  the  coxcomb, 
settling  his  cravat. 

"  Perfectly  intelligible ! "  was  my  reflection  on  this  reply ; 
and  I  forthwith  arrested  a  Whig  parson, —  "Who  is  Mr.  St. 
John?"    said  I. 

"  The  greatest  reprobate  in  England !  "  answered  the  Whig 
parson,  and  I  was  too  stunned  to  inquire  more. 

Five  minutes  afterwards  the  sound  of  carriage  wheels  Avas 
heard  in  the  courtyard,  then  a  slight  bustle  in  the  hall,  and 
the  door  of  the  ante-room  being  thrown  open  Mr.  St.  John 
entered. 

He  was  in  the  very  prime  of  life,  about  the  middle  height, 
and  of  a  mien  and  air  so  strikingly  noble  that  it  was  some 
time  before  you  recovered  the  general  effect  of  his  person 
sufficiently  to  examine  its  peculiar  claims  to  admiration. 
However,  he  lost  nothing  by  a  further  survey:  he  possessed 
not  only  an  eminently  handsome  but  a  very  extraordinary 
countenance.  Through  an  air  of  nonchalance,  and  even  some- 
thing of  lassitude;  through  an  ease  of  manners  sometimes 
sinking  into  effeminate  softness,  sometimes  bordering  upon 
licentious  effrontery,  —  his  eye  thoughtful,  yet  wandering, 
seemed  to  announce  that  the  mind  partook  but  little  of  the 
whim  of  the  moment,  or  of  those  levities  of  ordinary  life  over 
which  the  grace  of  his  manner  threw  so  peculiar  a  charm. 
His  brow  was,  perhaps,  rather  too  large  and  prominent  for 
the  exactness  of  perfect  symmetry,  but  it  had  an  expression 
of  great  mental  power  and  determination.  His  features  were 
high,  yet  delicate,  and  his  mouth,  which,  when  closed,  as- 
sumed a  firm  and  rather  severe  expression,  softened,  when 
speaking,  into  a  smile  of  almost  magical  enchantment.  Richly 
but  not  extravagantly  dressed,  he  appeared  to  cultivate  rather 
than  disdain  the  ornaments  of  outward  appearance ;  and  what- 
ever can  fascinate  or  attract  was  so  inherent  in  this  singular 
man  that  all  which  in  others  would  have  been  most  artificial 
was  in  him  most  natural :  so  that  it  is  no  exaggeration  to  add 
that  to  be  well  dressed  seemed  to  the  elegance  of  his  person 
not  so  much  the  result  of  art  as  of  a  property  innate  and  pe- 
culiar to  himself. 


DEVEREUX.  31 

Such  was  the  outward  appearance  of  Henry  St.  John;  one 
well  suited  to  the  qualities  of  a  mind  at  once  more  vigorous 
and  more  accomplished  than  that  of  any  other  person  with 
whom  the  vicissitudes  of  my  life  have  ever  brought  me  into 
contact. 

I  kept  my  eye  on  the  new  guest  throughout  the  whole  day : 
I  observed  the  mingled  liveliness  and  softness  which  pervaded 
his  attentions  to  women,  the  intellectual  yet  unpedantic  su- 
periority he  possessed  in  his  conversations  with  men;  his  re- 
spectful demeanour  to  age;  his  careless,  yet  not  over-familiar, 
ease  with  the  young;  and,  what  interested  me  more  than  all, 
the  occasional  cloud  which  passed  over  his  countenance  at 
moments  when  he  seemed  sunk  into  a  revery  that  had  for  its 
objects  nothing  in  common  with  those  around  him. 

Just  before  dinner  St.  John  was  talking  to  a  little  group, 
among  whom  curiosity  seemed  to  have  drawn  the  Whig  par- 
son whom  I  have  before  mentioned.  He  stood  at  a  little  dis- 
tance, shy  and  uneasy;  one  of  the  company  took  advantage 
of  so  favourable  a  butt  for  jests,  and  alluded  to  the  bystander 
in  a  witticism  which  drew  laughter  from  all  but  St.  John, 
who,  turning  suddenly  towards  the  parson,  addressed  an  ob- 
servation to  him  in  the  most  respectful  tone.  Nor  did  he 
cease  talking  with  him  (fatiguing  as  the  conference  must 
have  been,  for  never  was  there  a  duller  ecclesiastic  than  the 
gentleman  conversed  with)  until  we  descended  to  dinner. 
Then,  for  the  first  time,  I  learned  that  nothing  can  constitute 
good  breeding  that  has  not  good-nature  for  its  foundation; 
and  then,  too,  as  I  was  leading  Lady  Barbara  Lackland  to  the 
great  hall  by  the  tip  of  her  forefinger  I  made  another  obser- 
vation. Passing  the  priest,  I  heard  him  say  to  a  fellow- 
clerk, — 

"Certainly,  he  is  the  greatest  man  in  England;"  and  I 
mentally  remarked,  "There  is  no  policy  like  politeness;  and  a 
good  manner  is  the  best  thing  in  the  Avorld,  either  to  get  one 
a  good  name  or  to  supply  the  want  of  it." 


32  DEVEREUX. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

A   DIALOGUE,    WHICH    BIIGHT    BE    DULL    IF    IT    WERE    LONGER. 

Three  days  after  the  arrival  of  St.  John,  I  escaped  from 
the  crowd  of  impertinents,  seized  a  volume  of  Cowley,  and, 
in  a  fit  of  mingled  poetry  and  melancholy,  strolled  idly  into 
the  park.  I  came  to  the  margin  of  the  stream,  and  to  the 
very  spot  on  which  I  had  stood  with  my  uncle  on  the  evening 
when  he  had  first  excited  my  emulation  to  scholastic  rather 
than  manual  contention  witli  my  brother;  I  seated  myself  by 
the  water-side,  and,  feeling  indisposed  to  read,  leaned  my  cheek 
upon  my  hand,  and  surrendered  my  thoughts  as  prisoners  to 
the  reflections  which  I  could  not  resist. 

I  continued  I  know  not  how  long  in  my  meditation,  till  I 
was  roused  by  a  gentle  touch  upon  my  shoulder ;  I  looked  up, 
and  saw  St.  John. 

"Pardon  me,  Count,"  said  he,  smiling,  "I  should  not  have 
disturbed  your  reflections  had  not  your  neglect  of  an  old 
friend  emboldened  me  to  address  you  upon  his  behalf.  '  And 
St.  John  pointed  to  the  volume  of  Cowley  which  he  had  taken 
up  without  my  perceiving  it. 

"Well,"  added  he,  seating  himself  on  the  turf  beside  me, 
"  in  my  younger  days,  poetry  and  I  were  better  friends  than 
we  are  now.  And  if  I  had  had  Cowley  as  a  companion,  I 
should  not  have  parted  with  him  as  you  have  done,  even  for 
my  own  reflections." 

"You  admire  him  then  ?"  said  I. 

"AVhy,  that  is  too  general  a  question.  I  admire  what  is 
fine  in  him,  as  in  every  one  else,  but  I  do  not  love  him  the 
better  for  his  points  and  his  conceits.  He  reminds  me  of 
what  Cardinal  Pallavicino  said  of  Seneca,  that  he  'perfumes 
his  conceits  with  civet  and  ambergris.'  However,  Count,  I 
have  opened  upon  a  beautiful  motto  for  you :  — 


DEVEREUX.  33 

"'Here  let  me,  careless  and  nntlionctlitful  lying, 
Hear  the  soft  winds  above  me  flying, 
With  all  their  wanton  boughs  dispute, 
And  the  more  tuneful  birds  to  both  replying; 
.Nor  be  myself  too  mute.' 

What  say  you  to  that  wish  ?     If  you  have  a  germ  of  poetry 
in  you  such  verse  ought  to  bring  it  into  flower." 

"Ay,"  answered  I,  though  not  exactly  in  accordance  with 
the  truth;  "but  I  have  not  that  germ.  I  destroyed  it  four 
years  ago.  Eeading  the  dedications  of  poets  cured  me  of  the 
love  for  poetry.  What  a  pity  that  the  Divine  Inspiration 
should  have  for  its  oracles  such  mean  souls ! " 

"Yes,  and  how  industrious  the  good  gentlemen  are  in  de- 
basing themselves!  Their  ingenuity  is  never  half  so  much 
shown  in  a  simile  as  in  a  compliment;  I  know  nothing  in 
nature  more  melancholy  than  the  discovery  of  any  meanness 
in  a  great  man.  There  is  so  little  to  redeem  the  dry  mass  of 
follies  and  errors  from  which  the  materials  of  this  life  are 
composed,  that  anything  to  love  or  to  reverence  becomes,  as 
it  were,  the  sabbath  for  the  mind.  It  is  better  to  feel,  as  we 
grow  older,  how  the  respite  is  abridged,  and  how  the  few  ob- 
jects left  to  our  admiration  are  abased.  What  a  foe  not  only 
to  life,  but  to  all  that  dignifies  and  ennobles  it,  is  Time! 
Our  affections  and  our  pleasures  resemble  those  fabulous  trees 
described  by  Saint  Oderic :  the  fruits  which  they  bring  forth 
are  no  sooner  ripened  into  maturity  than  they  are  transformed 
into  birds  and  fly  away.  But  these  reflections  cannot  yet  be 
familiar  to  you.  Let  us  return  to  Cowley.  Do  you  feel  any 
sympathy  with  his  prose  writings  ?  For  some  minds  they 
have  a  great  attraction." 

"They  have  for  mine,"  answered  I:  "but  then  I  am  natur- 
ally a  dreamer;  and  a  contemplative  egotist  is  always  to  me  a 
mirror  in  which  I  behold  myself. " 

"The  world,"  answered  St.  John,  Avith  a  melancholy  smile, 
"will  soon  dissolve,  or  forever  confirm,  your  humour  for 
dreaming;  in  either  case,  Cowley  will  not  be  less  a  favourite. 
But  you  must,  like  me,  have  long  toiled  in  the  heat  and  tra- 
vail of  business,  or  of  pleasure,  which  is  more  wearisome  still, 

3 


34  DEVEREUX. 

in  order  fully  to  sympathize  with  those  beautiful  panegyrics 
upon  solitude  which  make  perhaps  the  finest  passages  in  Cow- 
ley. I  have  often  thought  that  he  whom  God  hath  gifted 
with  a  love  of  retirement  possesses,  as  it  were,  an  extra  sense. 
And  among  what  our  poet  so  eloquently  calls  'the  vast  and 
noble  scenes  of  Nature, '  we  find  the  balm  for  the  wounds  we 
have  sustained  among  the  'pitiful  shifts  of  policy;'  for  the 
attachment  to  solitude  is  the  surest  preservative  from  the  ills 
of  life :  and  I  know  not  if  the  Eomans  ever  instilled,  under 
allegory,  a  sublimer  truth  than  when  they  inculcated  the  be- 
lief that  those  inspired  by  Feronia,  the  goddess  of  woods  and 
forests,  could  walk  barefoot  and  uninjured  over  burning 
coals." 

At  this  part  of  our  conference,  the  bell  swinging  hoarsely 
through  the  long  avenues,  and  over  the  silent  water,  sum- 
moned us  to  the  grand  occupation  of  civilized  life ;  we  rose 
and  walked  slowly  towards  the  house. 

"Does  not,"  said  I,  "this  regular  routine  of  petty  occur- 
rence, this  periodical  solemnity  of  trifles,  weary  and  disgust 
you  ?  For  my  part,  I  almost  long  for  the  old  days  of  knight- 
errantry,  and  would  rather  be  knocked  on  the  head  by  a  giant, 
or  carried  through  the  air  by  a  flying  griffin,  than  live  in  this 
circle  of  dull  regularities, — the  brute  at  the  mill." 

"You  may  live  even  in  these  days,"  answered  St.  John, 
"  without  too  tame  a  regularity.  Women  and  politics  furnish 
ample  food  for  adventure,  and  you  must  not  judge  of  all  life 
by  country  life." 

"Nor  of  all  conversation,"  said  I,  with  a  look  which  im- 
plied a  compliment,  "by  the  insipid  idlers  who  fill  our  sa- 
loons. Behold  them  now,  gathered  by  the  oriel  window, 
yonder;  precious  distillers  of  talk, —  sentinels  of  society  with 
certain  set  phrases  as  watchwords,  which  they  never  exceed; 
sages,  who  follow  Face's  advice  to  Dapper, — 

"'Hum  thrice,  and  buzz  as  often.' " 


DEVEREUX.  35 


CHAPTEE  VII. 

A  CHANGE  OF  PROSPECTS. —  A  NEW  INSIGHT  INTO  THE  CHARAC- 
TER OF  THE  HERO. A  CONFERENCE  BETWEEN  TWO  BROTHERS. 

A  DAY  or  two  after  the  conversation  recorded  in  my  last 
chapter,  St.  John,  to  my  inexpressible  regret,  left  us  for  Lon- 
don; however,  we  had  enjoyed  several  conferences  together 
during  his  stay,  and  when  we  parted  it  was  with  a  pressing 
invitation  on  his  side  to  visit  him  in  London,  and  a  most 
faithful  promise  on  mine  to  avail  myself  of  the  request. 

No  sooner  was  he  fairly  gone  than  I  went  to  seek  my  uncle ; 
I  found  him  reading  one  of  Farquhar's  comedies.  Despite 
my  sorrow  at  interrupting  him  in  so  venerable  a  study,  I  was 
too  full  of  my  new  plot  to  heed  breaking  off  that  in  the  com- 
edy. In  very  few  words  I  made  the  good  knight  understand 
that  his  descriptions  had  infected  me,  and  that  I  was  dying 
to  ascertain  their  truth;  in  a  word,  that  his  hopeful  nephew 
was  fully  bent  on  going  to  town.  My  uncle  first  stared,  then 
swore,  then  paused,  then  looked  at  his  leg,  drew  up  his  stock- 
ing, frowned,  whistled,  and  told  me  at  last  to  talk  to  him 
about  it  another  time.  Now,  for  my  part,  I  think  there  are 
only  two  classes  of  people  in  the  world  authorized  to  put  one 
off  to  "another  time,"  —  prime  ministers  and  creditors;  ac- 
cordingly, I  would  not  take  my  uncle's  dismissal.  I  had  not 
read  plays,  studied  philosophy,  and  laid  snares  for  the  Abbe 
Montreuil  without  deriving  some  little  wisdom  from  my  expe- 
rience; so  I  took  to  teasing,  and  a  notable  plan  it  is  too! 
Whoever  has  pursued  it  may  guess  the  result.  My  uncle 
yielded,  and  that  day  fortnight  was  fixed  for  my  departure. 

Oh!  with  what  transport  did  I  look  forward  to  the  comple- 
tion of  my  wishes,  the  goal  of  my  ambition!  I  hastened  forth; 
I  hurried  into  the  woods ;  I  sang  out  in  the  gladness  of  my 
heart,  like  a  bird  released;  I  drank  in  the  air  with  a  raptur- 


36  DEVEREUX. 

ous  sympathy  in  its  freedom;  my  step  scarcely  touched  the 
earth,  and  my  whole  frame  seemed  ethereal,  elated,  exalted 
by  the  vivifying  inspiration  of  my  hopes.  I  paused  by  a  lit- 
tle streamlet,  which,  brawling  over  stones  and  through  unpen- 
etrated  thicknesses  of  wood,  seemed,  like  confined  ambition, 
not  the  less  restless  for  its  obscurity. 

"Wild  brooklet,"  I  cried,  as  my  thoughts  rushed  into  words, 
"  fret  on,  our  lot  is  no  longer  the  same ;  your  wanderings  and 
your  murmurs  are  wasted  in  solitude  and  shade ;  your  voice 
dies  and  re-awakes,  but  without  an  echo ;  your  waves  spread 
around  their  path  neither  fertility  nor  terror;  their  anger  is 
idle,  and  their  freshness  is  lavished  on  a  sterile  soil;  the  sun 
shines  in  vain  for  you,  through  these  unvarying  wastes  of  si- 
lence and  gloom;  Fortune  freights  not  your  channel  with  her 
hoarded  stores,  and  Pleasure  ventures  not  her  silken  sails 
upon  your  tide;  not  even  the  solitary  idler  roves  beside  you, 
to  consecrate  with  human  fellowship  your  melancholy  course ; 
no  shape  of  beauty  bends  over  your  turbid  waters,  or  mirrors 
in  your  breast  the  loveliness  that  hallows  earth.  Lonely  and 
sullen,  through  storm  or  sunshine,  you  repine  along  your  des- 
olate way,  and  only  catch,  through  the  matted  boughs  that 
darken  over  you,  the  beams  of  the  wan  stars,  which,  like  hu- 
man hopes,  tremble  upon  your  breast,  and  are  broken,  even 
before  they  fade,  by  the  very  turbulence  of  the  surface  on 
which  they  fall.  Rove,  repine,  murmur  on!  Such  was  my 
fate,  but  the  resemblance  is  no  more.  I  shall  no  longer  be  a 
lonely  and  regretful  being;  my  affections  will  no  longer  waste 
themselves  upon  barrenness  and  stone.  I  go  among  the  liv- 
ing and  warm  world  of  mortal  energies  and  desires ;  my  ex- 
istence shall  glide  alternately  through  crested  cities,  and 
bowers  in  which  Poetry  worships  Love;  and  the  clear  depths 
of  my  heart  shall  reflect  whatever  its  young  dreams  have 
shadowed  forth,  the  visioned  form,  the  gentle  and  fairy  spirit, 
the  Eve  of  my  soul's  imagined  and  foreboded  paradise." 

Venting,  in  this  incoherent  strain,  the  exultation  which 
filled  my  thoughts,  I  wandered  on,  throughout  the  whole  day, 
till  my  spirits  had  exhausted  themselves  by  indulgence ;  and, 
wearied  alike  by  mental   excitement  and  bodily  exertion,  I 


DEVEREUX.  37 

turned,  with  slow  steps,  towards  the  house.  As  I  ascended 
the  gentle  acclivity  on  which  it  stood,  I  saw  a  figure  approach- 
ing towards  me :  the  increasing  shades  of  the  evening  did  not 
allow  me  to  recognize  the  shape  until  it  was  almost  by  my 
side;    it  was  Aubrey. 

Of  late  I  had  seen  very  little  of  him.  His  devotional  stud- 
ies and  habits  seemed  to  draw  him  from  the  idle  pursuits  of 
myself  and  my  uncle's  guests;  and  Aubrey  was  one  peculiarly 
susceptible  of  neglect,  and  sore,  to  morbidity,  at  the  sem- 
blance of  unkindness;  so  that  he  required  to  be  sought,  and 
rarely  troubled  others  with  advances:  that  night,  however, 
his  greeting  was  unusually  warm. 

"I  was  uneasy  about  you,  Morton,"  said  he,  drawing  my 
arm  in  his;  "you  have  not  been  seen  since  morning;  and,  oh! 
Morton,  my  uncle  told  me,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  that  you 
were  going  to  leave  us.     Is  it  so  ? " 

"  Had  he  tears  in  his  eyes  ?  Kind  old  man !  And  you, 
Aubrey,   shall  you,   too,   grieve  for  my  departure  ? " 

"  Can  you  ask  it,  Morton  ?  But  why  will  you  leave  us  ? 
Are  we  not  all  happy  here,  now  ?  Now  that  there  is  no 
longer  any  barrier  or  difference  between  us, — now  that  I 
may  look  upon  you,  and  listen  to  you,  and  love  you,  and  own 
that  I  love  you  ?  Why  will  you  leave  us  now  ?  And  [con- 
tinued Aubrey,  as  if  fearful  of  giving  me  time  to  answer]  — 
and  every  one  praises  you  so  here ;  and  my  uncle  and  all  of 
us  are  so  proud  of  you.  Why  should  you  desert  our  affec- 
tions merely  because  they  are  not  new  ?  Why  plunge  into 
that  hollow  and  cold  world  which  all  who  have  tried  it  pic- 
ture in  such  fearful  hues  ?  Can  you  find  anything  there  to 
repay  you  for  the  love  you  leave  behind  ? " 

"My  brother,"  said  I,  mournfully,  and  in  a  tone  which 
startled  him, —  it  was  so  different  from  that  which  I  usually 
assumed, —  "my  brother,  hear  before  you  reproach  me.  Let 
us  sit  down  upon  this  bank,  and  I  will  suffer  you  to  see  more 
of  my  restless  and  secret  heart  than  any  hitherto  have 
beheld." 

We  sat  down  upon  a  little  mound:  how  well  I  remember 
the  spot !     I  can  see  the  tree  which  shadows  it  from  my  win- 


88  DEVEREUX. 

dow  at  this  moment.  How  many  seasons  liave  the  sweet  herb 
and  the  emerald  grass  been  withered  there  and  renewed !  Ah, 
what  is  this  revival  of  all  things  fresh  and  youthful  in  exter- 
nal Kature  but  a  mockery  of  the  wintry  si;)ot  which  lies  per- 
ished and  Irrenewable  within ! 

We  drew  near  to  each  other,  and  as  my  arm  wound  around 
him,  I  said,  "  Aubrey,  your  love  has  been  to  me  a  more  pre- 
cious gift  than  any  who  have  not,  like  me,  thirsted  and  longed 
even  for  the  love  of  a  dog,  can  conceive.  Is  ever  let  me  lose 
that  affection !  And  do  not  think  of  me  hereafter  as  of  one 
whose  heart  echoed  all  that  his  lip  uttered.  Do  not  believe 
that  irony,  and  sarcasm,  and  bitterness  of  tongue  flowed  from 
a  malignant  or  evil  source.  That  disposition  which  seems  to 
you  alternately  so  light  and  gloomy  had,  perhaps,  its  origin  in 
a  mind  too  intense  in  its  affections,  and  too  exacting  in  having 
them  returned.  Till  you  sought  my  friendship,  three  short 
years  ago,  none  but  my  uncle,  with  whom  I  could  have  nothing 
in  common  but  attachment,  seemed  to  care  for  my  very  exist- 
ence. I  blame  them  not;  they  were  deceived  in  my  nature: 
but  blame  me  not  too  severely  if  my  temper  suffered  from 
their  mistake.  Your  friendship  came  to  me,  not  too  late  to 
save  me  from  a  premature  misanthropy,  but  too  late  to 
eradicate  every  morbidity  of  mind.  Something  of  sternness 
on  the  one  hand,  and  of  satire  on  the  other,  has  mingled  so 
long  with  my  better  feelings  that  the  taint  and  the  stream 
have  become  inseparable.  Do  not  sigh,  Aubrey.  To  be  un- 
amiable  is  not  to  be  ungrateful ;  and  I  shall  not  love  you  the 
less  if  I  have  but  a  few  objects  to  love.  You  ask  me  my  in- 
ducement to  leave  you.  '  The  World '  will  be  sufficient  an- 
swer. I  cannot  share  your  contempt  of  it,  nor  your  fear.  I 
am,  and  have  been  of  late,  consumed  with  a  thirst, —  eager, 
and  burning,   and  unquenchable :    it  is  ambition !  " 

"Oh,  Morton!"  said  Aubrey,  with  a  second  sigh,  longer 
and  deeper  than  the  first,  "that  evil  passion!  the  passion 
which  lost  an  angel  heaven." 

"  Let  us  not  now  dispute,  my  brother,  whether  it  be  sinful 
in  itself,  or  whether,  if  its  object  be  virtuous,  it  is  not  a  vir- 
tue.    In  baring  my  soul  before  you,  I  only  speak  of  my  mo- 


DEVEREUX.  39 

tives,  and  seek  not  to  excuse  them.  Perhaps  on  this  earth 
there  is  no  good  without  a  little  evil.  When  my  mind  was 
once  turned  to  the  acquisition  of  mental  superiority,  every 
petty  acquisition  I  made  increased  my  desire  to  attain  more, 
and  partial  emulation  soon  widened  into  universal  ambition. 
We  three,  Gerald  and  ourselves,  are  the  keepers  of  a  treasure 
more  valuable  than  gold,  —  the  treasure  of  a  not  ignoble  nor 
sullied  name.  For  my  part,  I  confess  that  I  am  impatient 
to  increase  the  store  of  honour  which  our  father  bequeathed 
to  us.  Nor  is  this  all :  despite  our  birth,  we  are  poor  in  the 
gifts  of  fortune.  We  are  all  dependants  on  my  uncle's  fa- 
vour; and,  however  we  may  deserve  it,  there  would  be  some- 
thing better  in  earning  an  independence  for  ourselves." 

"That,"  said  Aubrey,  "maybe  an  argument  for  mine  and 
Gerald's  exertions;  but  not  for  yours.  You  are  the  eldest, 
and  my  uncle's  favourite.  Nature  and  affection  both  point 
to  you  as  his  heir." 

"  If  so,  Aubrey,  may  many  years  pass  before  that  inherit- 
ance be  mine !  Why  should  those  years  that  might  produce 
so  much  lie  fallow  ?  But  though  I  would  not  affect  an  unreal 
delicacy,  and  disown  my  chance  of  future  fortune,  yet  you 
must  remember  that  it  is  a  matter  possible,  not  certain.  My 
birthright  gives  me  no  claim  over  my  uncle,  whose  estates 
are  in  his  own  gift;  and  favour,  even  in  the  good,  is  a  wind 
which  varies  Avithout  power  on  our  side  to  calculate  the  sea- 
son or  the  cause.  However  this  be, — and  I  love  the  person 
on  whom  fortune  depends  so  much  that  I  cannot,  without 
pain,  speak  of  the  mere  chance  of  its  passing  from  his  pos- 
session into  mine,  —  you  will  own  at  least  that  I  shall  not 
hereafter  deserve  wealth  the  less  for  the  advantages  of 
experience." 

"Alas!  "  said  Aubrey,  raising  his  eyes,  "the  worship  of  our 
Father  in  Heaven  finds  us  ample  cause  for  occupation,  even 
in  retirement;  and  the  more  we  mix  with  His  creatures,  the 
more,  I  fear,  we  may  forget  the  Creator.  But  if  it  must  be 
so,  I  will  pray  for  you,  Morton;  and  you  Avill  remember  that 
the  powerless  and  poor  Aubrey  can  still  lift  up  his  voice  in 
your  behalf." 


40  DEVEREUX. 

As  Aubrey  thus  spoke,  I  looked  -n-ith  mingled  envy  and 
admiration  upon  the  countenance  beside  me,  which  the  beauty 
of  a  spirit  seemed  at  once  to  soften  and  to  exalt. 

Since  our  conference  had  begun,  the  dusk  of  twilight  had 
melted  away;  and  the  moon  had  called  into  lustre  —  living, 
indeed,  but  unlike  the  common  and  unhallowing  life  of  day 
—  the  wood  and  herbage,  and  silent  variations  of  hill  and  val- 
ley, which  slept  around  us;  and,  as  the  still  and  shadowy 
light  fell  over  the  upward  face  of  my  brother,  it  gave  to  his 
features  an  additional,  and  not  wholly  earth-born,  solemnity 
of  expression.  There  was  indeed  in  his  face  and  air  that  from 
which  the  painter  of  a  seraph  might  not  have  disdained  to 
copy :  something  resembling  the  vision  of  an  angel  in  the  dark 
eyes  that  swam  with  tears,  in  which  emotion  had  so  little  of 
mortal  dross ;  in  the  youthful  and  soft  cheeks,  which  the  ear- 
nestness of  divine  thought  had  refined  by  a  pale  but  transpar- 
ent hue ;  in  the  high  and  unclouded  forehead,  over  which  the 
hair,  parted  in  the  centre,  fell  in  long  and  wavelike  curls; 
and  in  the  lips,  silent,  yet  moving  with  internal  prayer,  which 
seemed  the  more  fervent,  because  unheard. 

I  did  not  interrupt  him  in  the  prayer,  which  my  soul  felt, 
though  my  ear  caught  it  not,  was  for  me.  But  when  he  had 
ceased,  and  turned  towards  me,  I  clasped  him  to  my  breast. 
"My  brother,"  I  said,  "we  shall  part,  it  is  true,  but  not  till 
our  hearts  have  annihilated  the  space  that  was  between  them ; 
not  till  we  have  felt  that  the  love  of  brotherhood  can  pass  the 
love  of  woman.  Whatever  await  you,  your  devoted  and  holy 
mind  will  be,  if  not  your  shield  from  affliction,  at  least  your 
balm  for  its  wounds.  Eemain  here.  The  quiet  which  breathes 
around  you  well  becomes  your  tranquillity  within;  and  some- 
times bless  me  in  your  devotions,  as  you  have  done  now.  For 
me,  I  shall  not  regret  those  harder  and  harsher  qualities  which 
you  blame  in  me,  if  thereafter  their  very  sternness  can  afford 
me  an  opportunity  of  protecting  your  gentleness  from  evil,  or 
redressing  the  wrongs  from  which  your  nature  may  be  too  in- 
nocent to  preserve  you.  And  now  let  us  return  home  in  the 
conviction  that  we  have  in  our  friendship  one  treasure  beyond 
the  reach  of  fate." 


DEVEREUX.  41 

Aubrey  did  not  answer;  but  lie  kissed  my  forehead,  and  I 
felt  his  tears  upon  my  cheek.  We  rose,  and  with  arms  still 
embracing  each  other  as  we  walked,  bent  our  steps  to  the 
house. 

Ah,  earth !  what  hast  thou  more  beautiful  than  the  love  of 
those  whose  ties  are  knit  by  nature,  and  whose  union  seems 
ordained  to  begin  from  the  very  moment  of  their  birth  ? 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


FIRST    LOVE. 


We  are  under  very  changeful  influences  in  this  world !  The 
night  on  which  occurred  the  interview  with  Aubrey  that  I 
have  just  narrated,  I  was  burning  to  leave  Devereux  Court. 
Within  one  little  week  from  that  time  my  eagerness  was  won- 
derfully abated.  The  sagacious  reader  will  readily  discover  the 
cause  of  this  alteration.  About  eight  miles  from  my  uncle's 
house  was  a  seaport  town;  there  were  many  and  varied  rides 
leading  to  it,  and  the  town  was  a  favourite  place  of  visitation 
with  all  the  family.  Within  a  few  hundred  yards  of  the  town 
was  a  small  cottage,  prettily  situated  in  the  midst  of  a  garden, 
kept  with  singular  neatness,  and  ornamented  with  several 
rare  shrubs  and  exotics.  I  had  more  than  once  observed  in 
the  garden  of  this  house  a  female  in  the  very  first  blush  of 
youth,  and  beautiful  enough  to  excite  within  me  a  strong  cu- 
riosity to  learn  the  owner  of  the  cottage.  I  inquired,  and 
ascertained  that  its  tenant  was  a  Spaniard  of  high  birth,  and 
one  who  had  acquired  a  melancholy  celebrity  by  his  conduct 
and  misfortunes  in  the  part  he  had  taken  in  a  certain  feeble 
but  gallant  insurrection  in  his  native  country.  He  had  only 
escaped  with  life  and  a  very  small  sum  of  money,  and  cow 

lived  in  the  obscure  seaport  of ,  a  refugee  and  a  recluse. 

He  was  a  widower,  and  had  only  one  child, —  a  daughter;  and 


42  DEVEREUX. 

I  Tv^as  therefore  at  no  loss  to  discover  who  was  the  beautiful 
female  I  had  noted  and  admired. 

On  the  day  after  my  conversation  with  Aubrey  detailed  in 
the  last  chapter,  in  riding  past  this  cottage  alone,  I  perceived 
a  crowd  assembled  round  the  entrance;  I  paused  to  inquire 
the  cause. 

"Why,  your  honour,"  quoth  a  senior  of  the  village,  "I  be- 
lieve the  tipstaves  be  come  to  take  the  foreigner  for  not  pay- 
ing his  rent;  and  he  does  not  understand  our  English  liberty 
like,  and  has  drawn  his  sword,  and  swears,  in  his  outlandish 
lingo,  he  will  not  be  made  prisoner  alive." 

I  required  no  further  inducement  to  make  me  enter  the 
house.  The  crowd  gave  way  when  they  saw  me  dismount, 
and  suffered  me  to  penetrate  into  the  first  apartment.  There 
I  found  the  gallant  old  Spaniard  with  his  sword  drawn,  keep- 
ing at  bay  a  couple  of  sturdy-looking  men,  who  appeared  to  be 
only  prevented  from  using  violence  by  respect  for  the  person 
or  the  safety  of  a  young  woman,  who  clung  to  her  father's 
knees  and  implored  him  not  to  resist  where  resistance  was  so 
unavailing.  Let  me  cut  short  this  scene;  I  dismissed  the 
bailiffs,  and  paid  the  debt.  I  then  endeavoured  to  explain  to 
the  Spaniard,  in  French,  for  he  scarcely  understood  three 
words  of  our  language,  the  cause  of  a  rudeness  towards  him 
which  he  persisted  in  calling  a  great  insult  and  inhospitality 
manifested  to  a  stranger  and  an  exile.  I  succeeded  at  length 
in  pacifying  him.  I  remained  for  more  than  an  hour  at  the 
cottage,  and  I  left  it  with  a  heart  beating  at  a  certain  persua- 
sion that  I  had  established  therein  the  claim  of  acquaintance 
and  visitation. 

Will  the  reader  pardon  me  for  having  curtailed  this  scene  ? 
It  is  connected  with  a  subject  on  which  I  shall  better  endure 
to  dwell  as  my  narrative  proceeds.  From  that  time  I  paid 
frequent  visits  to  the  cottage ;  the  Spaniard  soon  grew  inti- 
mate with  me,  and  I  thought  the  daughter  began  to  blush 
when  I  entered,  and  to  sigh  when  I  departed. 

One  evening  I  was  conversing  with  Don  Diego  D'Alvarez 
(such  was  the  Spaniard's  name),  as  he  sat  without  the  thres- 
hold, inhaling  the  gentle  air,  that  stole  freshness  from  the 


DEVEREUX.  43 

rippling  sea  that  spread  before  us,  and  fragrance  from  the 
earth,  over  which  the  summer  now  reigned  in  its  most  mellow 
glory.     Isora  (the  daughter)  sat  at  a  little  distance. 

"How  comes  it,"  said  Don  Diego,  "that  you  have  never  met 
our  friend  Senor  Bar  —  Bar — these  English  names  are  always 
escaping  my  memory.     How  is  he  called,  Isora  ?  " 

"Mr. —  Mr.  Barnard,"  said  Isora  (who,  brought  early  to  Eng- 
land, spoke  its  language  like  a  native),  but  with  evident  con- 
fusion, and  looking  down  as  she  spoke  —  "  Mr.  Barnard,  I  be- 
lieve, you  mean." 

"Eight,  my  love,"  rejoined  the  Spaniard,  who  was  smoking 
a  long  pipe  with  great  gravity,  and  did  not  notice  his  daugh- 
ter's embarrassment,  —  "a  fine  youth,  but  somewhat  shy  and 
over-modest  in  manner." 

"  Youth !  "  thought  I,  and  I  darted  a  piercing  look  towards 
Isora.  "How  comes  it,  indeed,"  I  said  aloud,  "that  I  have 
not  met  him  ?     Is  he  a  friend  of  long  standing  ?  " 

"Nay,  not  very, —  perhaps  of  some  six  weeks  earlier  date 
than  you,  Senor  Don  Devereux.  I  pressed  him,  when  he 
called  this  morning,  to  tarry  your  coming:  but,  poor  youth, 
he  is  diffident,  and  not  yet  accustomed  to  mix  freely  with 
strangers,  especially  those  of  rank;  our  own  presence  a  little 
overawes  him;"  and  from  Don  Diego's  gray  mustachios  is- 
sued a  yet  fuller  cloud  than  was  ordinarily  wont  to  emerge 
thence. 

My  eyes  were  still  fixed  on  Isora;  she  looked  up,  met  them, 
blushed  deeply,  rose,  and  disappeared  within  the  house.  I 
was  already  susceptible  of  jealousy.  My  lip  trembled  as  I 
resumed:  "And  will  Don  Diego  pardon  me  for  inquiring 
how  commenced  his  knowledge  of  this  ingenuous  youth  ?  " 

The  question  was  a  little  beyond  the  pale  of  good  breeding; 
perhaps  the  Spaniard,  who  was  tolerably  punctilious  in  such 
matters,  thought  so,  for  he  did  not  reply.  I  was  sensible  of 
my  error,  and  apologizing  for  it,  insinuated,  nevertheless,  the 
question  in  a  more  respectful  and  covert  shape.  Still  Don 
Diego,  inhaling  the  fragrant  weed  with  renewed  vehemence, 
only  —  like  Pion's  tomb,  recorded  by  Pausanias  —  replied  to 
the  request  of  his  petitioner  hy  smoke.     I  did  not  venture  to 


44  DEVEREUX. 

renew  my  interrogatories,  and  there  was  a  long  silence.  My 
eyes  fixed  their  gaze  on  the  door  by  which  Isora  had  disap- 
peared. In  vain;  she  returned  not;  and  as  the  chill  of  the 
increasing  evening  began  now  to  make  itself  felt  by  the  frame 
of  one  accustomed  to  warmer  skies,  the  Spaniard  soon  rose  to 
re-enter  his  house,  and  I  took  my  farewell  for  the  night. 

There  were  many  ways  (as  I  before  said)  by  which  I  could 
return  home,  all  nearly  equal  in  picturesque  beauty;  for  the 
county  in  which  my  uncle's  estates  were  placed  was  one  where 
stream  roved  and  Avoodland  flourished  even  to  the  very  strand 
or  cliff  of  the  sea.  The  shortest  route,  though  one  the  least 
frequented  by  any  except  foot-passengers,  was  along  the  coast, 
and  it  was  by  this  path  that  I  rode  slowly  homeward.  On 
winding  a  curve  in  the  road  about  one  mile  from  Devereux 
Court,  the  old  building  broke  slowly,  tower  by  tower,  upon 
me.  I  have  never  yet  described  the  house,  and  perhaps  it 
will  not  be  uninteresting  to  the  reader  if  I  do  so  now. 

It  had  anciently  belonged  to  Ealph  de  Bigod.  From  his 
possession  it  had  passed  into  that  of  the  then  noblest  branch 
the  stem  of  Devereux,  whence,  without  break  or  flaw  in  the 
direct  line  of  heritage,  it  had  ultimately  descended  to  the 
present  owner.  It  was  a  pile  of  vast  extent,  built  around 
three  quadrangular  courts,  the  farthest  of  which  spread  to 
the  very  verge  of  the  gray,  tall  cliffs  that  overhung  the  sea ; 
in  this  court  was  a  rude  tower,  which,  according  to  tradition, 
had  contained  the  apartments  ordinarily  inhabited  by  our  ill- 
fated  namesake  and  distant  kinsman,  Eobert  Devereux,  the 
favourite  and  the  victim  of  Elizabeth,  whenever  he  had  hon- 
oured the  mansion  with  a  visit.  There  was  nothing,  it  is 
true,  in  the  old  tower  calculated  to  flatter  the  tradition,  for  it 
contained  only  two  habitable  rooms,  communicating  with 
each  other,  and  by  no  means  remarkable  for  size  or  splen- 
dour ;  and  every  one  of  our  household,  save  myself,  was  wont 
to  discredit  the  idle  rumour  which  would  assign  to  so  dis- 
tinguished a  guest  so  unseemly  a  lodgment.  But,  as  I 
looked  from  the  narrow  lattices  of  the  chambers,  over  the 
wide  expanse  of  ocean  and  of  land  which  they  commanded ; 
as  I  noted,  too,  that  the  tower  was  utterly  separated  from  the 


DEVEREUX.  45 

rest  of  the  house,  and  that  the  convenience  of  its  site  enabled 
one  on  quitting  it,  to  escape  at  once,  and  privately,  either  to 
the  solitary  beach,  or  to  the  glades  and  groves  of  the  wide 
park  which  stretched  behind, —  I  could  not  help  indulging  the 
belief  that  the  unceremonious  and  not  unromantic  noble  had 
himself  selected  his  place  of  retirement,  and  that,  in  so  doing, 
the  gallant  of  a  stately  court  was  not  perhaps  undesirous  of 
securing  at  well-chosen  moments  a  brief  relaxation  from  the 
heavy  honours  of  country  homage;  or  that  the  patron  and 
poetic  admirer  of  the  dreaming  Spenser  might  have  preferred, 
to  all  more  gorgeous  accommodation,  the  quiet  and  unseen 
egress  to  that  sea  and  shore,  which,  if  we  may  believe  the 
accomplished  Roman,  ^  are  so  fertile  in  the  powers  of 
inspiration. 

However  this  be,  I  had  cheated  myself  into  the  belief  that 
my  conjecture  was  true,  and  I  had  petitioned  my  uncle,  when, 
on  leaving  school,  he  assigned  to  each  of  us  our  several  apart- 
ments, to  grant  me  the  exclusive  right  to  this  dilapidated 
tower.  I  gained  my  boon  easily  enough ;  and  —  so  strangely 
is  our  future  fate  compounded  from  past  trifles  —  I  verily  be- 
lieve that  the  strong  desire  which  thenceforth  seized  me  to 
visit  courts  and  mix  with  statesmen  —  which  afterwards  hur- 
ried me  into  intrigue,  war,  the  plots  of  London,  the  dissipa- 
tions of  Paris,  the  perilous  schemes  of  Petersburg,  nay,  the 
very  hardships  of  a  Cossack  tent  —  was  first  formed  by  the 
imaginary  honour  of  inhabiting  the  same  chamber  as  the  glit- 
tering but  ill-fated  courtier  of  my  own  name.  Thus  youth 
imitates  where  it  should  avoid;  and  thus  that  which  should 
have  been  to  me  a  warning  became  an  example. 

In  the  oaken  floor  to  the  outer  chamber  of  this  tower  was 
situated  a  trap-door,  the  entrance  into  a  lower  room  or  rather 
cell,  fitted  up  as  a  bath;  and  here  a  wooden  door  opened  into 
a  long  subterranean  passage  that  led  out  into  a  cavern  by  the 
sea-shore.      This  cave,  partly  by  nature,  partly  by  art,  was 

1  ''0  ipare,  0  litns,  venim  secretumque  Moixretoc,  quam  multa  dictatis, 
quam  multa  invenitis!"  —  Plinius. 

"  0  sea,  0  shore,  true  and  secret  sanctuary  of  the  Muses,  how  many  things 
ye  dictate,  how  many  things  ye  discover !  " 


46  DEVEREUX. 

hollowed  into  a  beautiful  Gothic  form;  and  here,  on  moon- 
light evenings,  when  the  sea  crept  gently  over  the  yellow  and 
smooth  sands  and  the  summer  tempered  the  air  from  too  keen 
a  freshness,  my  uncle  had  often  in  his  younger  days,  ere  gout 
and  rheum  had  grown  familiar  images,  assembled  his  guests. 
It  was  a  place  which  the  echoes  peculiarly  adapted  for  music ; 
and  the  scene  was  certainly  not  calculated  to  diminish  the 
effect  of  "sweet  sounds."  Even  now,  though  my  uncle  rarely 
joined  us,  v.^e  were  often  wont  to  hold  our  evening  revels  in 
this  spot ;  and  the  high  cliffs,  circling  either  side  in  the  form 
of  a  bay,  tolerably  well  concealed  our  meetings  from  the  gaze 
of  the  vulgar.  It  is  true  (for  these  cliffs  were  perforated 
with  numerous  excavations)  that  some  roving  peasant,  mar- 
iner, or  perchance  smuggler,  would  now  and  then,  at  low 
■water,  intrude  upon  us.  But  our  London  Nereids  and  courtly 
Tritons  were  always  well  pleased  with  the  interest  of  what 
they  graciously  termed  "  an  adventure ; "  and  our  assemblies 
were  too  numerous  to  think  an  unbroken  secrecy  indispensa- 
ble. Hence,  therefore,  the  cavern  was  almost  considered  a 
part  of  the  house  itself;  and  though  there  was  an  iron  door 
at  the  entrance  which  it  gave  to  the  passage  leading  to  my 
apartments,  yet  so  great  was  our  confidence  in  our  neighbours 
or  ourselves  that  it  was  rarely  secured,  save  as  a  defence 
against  the  high  tides  of  winter. 

The  stars  were  shining  quietly  over  the  old  gra,y  castle 
(for  castle  it  really  was),  as  I  now  came  wnthin  view  of  it. 
To  the  left,  and  in  the  rear  of  the  house,  the  trees  of  the  park, 
grouped  by  distance,  seemed  blent  into  one  thick  mass  of 
■wood;  to  the  right,  as  I  now  (descending  the  cliff  by  a  grad- 
ual path)  entered  on  the  level  sands,  and  at  about  the  distance 
of  a  league  from  the  main  shore,  a  small  islet,  notorious  as 
the  resort  and  shelter  of  contraband  adventurers,  scarcely  re- 
lieved the  wide  and  glassy  azure  of  the  waves.  The  tide  was 
out;  and  passing  through  one  of  the  arches  -worn  in  the  bay, 
I  came  somewhat  suddenly  by  the  cavern.  Seated  there  on  a 
crag  of  stone  I  found  Aubrey. 

My  acquaintance  with  Isora  and  her  father  had  so  immedi- 
ately succeeded  the  friendly  meeting   w^ith  Aubrey  which  I 


DEVEREUX.  47 

last  recorded,  and  had  so  utterly  engrossed  my  time  and 
thoughts,  that  I  had  not  taken  of  that  interview  all  the  broth- 
erly advantage  which  I  might  have  done.  My  heart  now 
smote  me  for  my  involuntary  negligence.  I  dismounted,  and 
fastening  my  horse  to  one  of  a  long  line  of  posts  that  ran  into 
the  sea,  approached  Aubrey  and  accosted  him. 

"  Alone,  Aubrey  ?  and  at  an  hour  when  my  uncle  always 
makes  the  old  walls  ring  with  revel  ?  Hark !  can  you  not 
hear  the  music  even  now?  It  comes  from  the  ball-room,  I 
think,   does  it  not  ? " 

"Yes,"  said  Aubrey,  briefly,  and  looking  down  upon  a  de- 
votional book,  which  (as  was  his  wont)  he  had  made  his 
companion. 

"And  we  are  the  only  truants!  —  Well,  Gerald  will  supply 
our  places  with  a  lighter  step,  and,  perhaps,  a  merrier  heart." 

Aubrey  sighed.  I  bent  over  him  affectionately  (I  loved 
that  boy  with  something  of  a  father's  as  well  as  a  brother's 
love),  and  as  I  did  bend  over  him,  I  saw  that  his  eyelids  were 
red  with  weeping. 

"My  brother  —  my  own  dear  brother,"  said  I,  "what  grieves 
you  ?  —  are  we  not  friends,  and  more  than  friends  ?  —  what 
can  grieve  you  that  grieves  not  me  ?  " 

Suddenly  raising  his  head,  Aubrey  gazed  at  me  with  a  long, 
searching  intentness  of  eye;  his  lips  moved,  but  he  did  not 
answer. 

"Speak  to  me,  Aiibrey,"  said  T,  passing  my  arm  over  his 
shoulder;  "has  any  one,  anything,  hurt  you  ?  See,  now,  if  I 
cannot  remedy  the  evil." 

"Morton,"  said  Aubrey,  speaking  very  slowly,  "do  you  be- 
lieve that  Heaven  pre-orders  as  well  as  foresees  our  destiny  ?  " 

"It  is  the  schoolman's  question,"  said  I,  smiling;  "but  I 
know  how  these  idle  subtleties  vex  the  mind;  and  you,  my 
brother,  are  ever  too  occupied  with  considerations  of  the 
future.  If  Heaven  does  pre-order  our  destiny,  we  know  that 
Heaven  is  merciful,  and  we  should  be  fearless,  as  we  arm 
ourselves  in  that  knowledge." 

"  Morton  Devereux, "  said  Aubrey,  again  repeating  my  name, 
and  with  an  evident  inward  effort  that  left  his  lip  colourless, 


48  DEVEREUX. 

and  yet  lit  his  dark  dilating  eye  with  a  strange  and  unwonted 
fire, —  "Morton  Devereux,  I  feel  that  I  am  predestined  to 
the  power  of  the  Evil  One ! " 

I  drew  back,  inexpressibly  shocked.  "  Good  Heavens !  "  I 
exclaimed,  "what  can  induce  you  to  cherish  so  terrible  a  phan- 
tasy ?  what  can  induce  you  to  wrong  so  fearfully  the  goodness 
and  mercy  of  our  Creator  ?  " 

Aubrey  shrank  from  my  arm,  which  had  still  been  round 
him,  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  I  took  up  the  book 
he  had  been  reading;  it  was  a  Latin  treatise  on  predestina- 
tion, and  seemed  fraught  with  the  most  gloomy  and  bewilder- 
ing subtleties.  I  sat  down  beside  him,  and  pointed  out  the 
various  incoherencies  and  contradictions  of  the  work,  and  the 
doctrine  it  espoused:  so  long  and  so  earnestly  did  I  speak 
that  at  length  Aubrey  looked  up,  seemingly  cheered  and 
relieved. 

"  I  wish, ''  said  he,  timidly,  "  I  wish  that  you  loved  me,  and 
that  you  loved  me  only :  but  you  love  pleasure,  and  power,  and 
show,  and  wit,  and  revelry ;  and  you  know  not  what  it  is  to 
feel  for  me  as  I  feel  at  times  for  you, —  nay,  perhaps  you 
really  dislike  or  despise  me." 

Aubrey's  voice  grew  bitter  in  its  tone  as  he  concluded  these 
words,  and  I  was  instantly  impressed  with  the  belief  that 
some  one  had  insinuated  distrust  of  my  affection  for  him. 

"Why  should  you  think  thus?"  I  said;  "has  any  cause 
occurred  of  late  to  make  you  deem  my  affection  for  you 
weaker  than  it  was  ?  Has  any  one  hinted  a  surmise  that  I  do 
not  repay  your  brotherly  regard  ?  " 

Aubrey  did  not  answer. 

"Has  Gerald,"  I  continued,  "jealous  of  our  mutual  attach- 
ment, uttered  aught  tending  to  diminish  it  ?  Yes,  I  see  that 
he  has." 

Aubrey  remained  motionless,  sullenly  gazing  downward 
and  still  silent. 

"Speak,"  said  I,  "in  justice  to  both  of  us, —  speak!  You 
know,  Aubrey,  how  I  have  loved  and  love  you :  put  your  arms 
round  me,  and  say  that  thing  on  earth  which  you  wish  me  to 
do,  and  it  shall  be  done !  " 


DEVEREUX.  49 

Aubrey  looked  up ;  he  met  my  eyes,  and  he  threw  himself 
upon  my  neck,  and  burst  into  a  violent  paroxysm  of  tears. 

I  was  greatly  affected.  "I  see  my  fault,"  said  I,  soothing 
him ;  *'  you  are  angry,  and  with  justice,  that  I  have  neglected 
you  of  late;  and,  perhaps,  while  I  ask  your  confidence,  you 
suspect  that  there  is  some  subject  on  which  I  should  have 
granted  you  mine.  You  are  right,  and,  at  a  fitter  moment, 
I  will.  Now  let  us  return  homeward:  our  uncle  is  never 
merry  when  we  are  absent;  and  when  my  mother  misses  your 
dark  locks  and  fair  cheek,  I  fancy  that  she  sees  little  beauty 
in  the  ball.  And  yet,  Aubrey,"  I  added,  as  he  now  rose  from 
my  embrace  and  dried  his  tears,  "  I  will  own  to  you  that  I 
love  this  scene  better  than  any,  however  gay,  within ;  "  and  I 
turned  to  the  sea,  starlit  as  it  was,  and  murmuring  with  a 
silver  voice,  and  I  became  suddenly  silent. 

There  was  a  long  pause.  I  believe  we  both  felt  the  influ- 
ence of  the  scene  around  us,  softening  and  tranquillizing  our 
hearts;  for,  at  length,  Aubrey  put  his  hand  in  mine,  and 
said,  "You  were  always  more  generous  and  kind  than  I,  Mor- 
ton, though  there  are  times  when  you  seem  different  from 
what  you  are;  and  I  know  you  have  already  forgiven  me." 

I  drew  him  affectionately  towards  me,  and  we  went  home. 

But  although  I  meant  from  that  night  to  devote  myself  more 
to  Aubrey  than  I  had  done  of  late,  my  hourly  increasing  love 
for  Isora  interfered  greatly  with  my  resolution.  In  order, 
however,  to  excuse  any  future  neglect,  I,  the  very  next  morn- 
ing, bestowed  upon  him  my  confidence.  Aubrey  did  not  much 
encourage  my  passion :  he  represented  to  me  Isora's  situation, 
my  OAvn  youth,  my  own  worldly  ambition ;  and,  more  than  all 
(reminding  me  of  my  uncle's  aversion  even  to  the  most  pros- 
perous and  well-suited  marriage),  he  insisted  upon  the  cer- 
tainty that  Sir  William  would  never  yield  consent  to  the 
lawful  consummation  of  so  unequal  a  love.  I  was  not  too 
well  pleased  with  this  reception  of  my  tale,  and  I  did  not 
much  trouble  my  adviser  with  any  further  communication 
and  confidence  on  the  subject.  Day  after  day  I  renewed  my 
visits  to  the  Spaniard's  cottage;  and  yet  time  passed  on,  and 
I  had  not  told  Isora  a  syllable  of  my  love.     I  was  inexpressi- 

4 


50  DEVEREUX. 

bly  jealous  of  this  Barnard,  -whom  her  father  often  eulogized, 
and  whom  I  never  met.  There  appeared  to  be  some  mystery 
in  his  acquaintance  with  Don  Diego,  which  that  personage 
carefully  concealed ;  and  once,  when  I  was  expressing  my  sur- 
prise to  have  so  often  missed  seeing  his  friend,  the  Spaniard 
shook  his  head  gravely,  and  said  that  he  had  now  learnt  the 
real  reason  for  it:  there  were  circumstances  of  state  which 
made  men  fearful  of  new  acquaintances  even  in  their  own 
country.  He  drew  back,  as  if  he  had  said  too  much,  and  left 
me  to  conjecture  that  Barnard  was  connected  with  him  in 
some  intrigue,  more  delightful  in  itself  than  agreeable  to  the 
government.  This  belief  was  strengthened  by  my  noting  that 
Alvarez  was  frequently  absent  from  home,  and  this  too  in  the 
evening,  when  he  was  generally  wont  to  shun  the  bleakness 
of  the  English  air,  —  an  atmosphere,  by  the  by,  which  I  once 
heard  a  Frenchman  wittily  compare  to  Augustus  placed  be- 
tween Horace  and  Virgil;  namely,  in  the  ho7i  mot  of  the 
emperor  himself,   between  sighs  and  tears. 

But  Isora  herself  never  heard  the  name  of  this  Barnard 
mentioned  without  a  visible  confusion,  which  galled  me  to 
the  heart ;  and  at  length,  unable  to  endure  any  longer  my  sus- 
pense upon  the  subject,  I  resolved  to  seek  from  her  own  lips 
its  termination.  I  long  tarried  vaj  opportunity;  it  was  one 
evening  that  coming  rather  unexpectedly  to  the  cottage,  I  was 
informed  by  the  single  servant  that  Don  Diego  had  gone  to 
the  neighbouring  town,  but  that  Isora  was  in  the  garden. 
Small  as  it  was,  this  garden  had  been  cultivated  with  some 
care,  and  was  not  devoid  of  variety.  A  high  and  very  thick 
fence  of  living  box-wood,  closely  interlaced  with  the  honey- 
suckle and  the  common  rose,  screened  a  few  plots  of  rarer 
flowers,  a  small  circular  fountain,  and  a  rustic  arbour,  both 
from  the  sea  breezes  and  the  eyes  of  any  passer-by,  to  which 
the  open  and  unsheltered  portion  of  the  garden  was  exposed. 
When  I  passed  through  the  opening  cut  in  the  fence,  I  was 
somewhat  surprised  at  not  immediately  seeing  Isora.  Per- 
haps she  was  in  the  arbour.  I  approached  the  arbour  trem- 
bling. What  was  my  astonishment  and  my  terror  when  I 
beheld  her  stretched  lifeless  on  the  ground! 


DEVEREUX.  51 

I  uttered  a  loud  cry,  and  sprang  forward.  I  raised  her 
from  the  earth,  and  supported  her  in  my  arms ;  her  complex- 
ion —  through  whose  pure  and  transparent  white  the  wander- 
ing blood  was  wont  so  gently,  yet  so  glowingly,  to  blush, 
undulating  while  it  blushed,  as  youngest  rose-leaves  which 
the  air  just  stirs  into  trembling  —  was  blanched  into  the  hues 
of  death.  My  kisses  tinged  it  with  a  momentary  colour  not 
its  own ;  and  yet  as  I  pressed  her  to  my  heart,  methought  hers, 
which  seemed  still  before,  began  as  if  by  an  involuntary  sym- 
pathy, palpably  and  suddenly  to  throb  against  my  own.  My 
alarm  melted  away  as  I  held  her  thus, —  nay,  I  would  not,  if 
I  could,  have  recalled  her  yet  to  life ;  I  was  forgetful,  I  was 
unheeding,  I  was  unconscious  of  all  things  else,  —  a  few  broken 
and  passionate  words  escaped  my  lips,  but  even  they  ceased 
when  I  felt  her  breath  just  stirring  and  mingling  with  my 
own.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  all  living  kind  but  ourselves  had, 
by  a  spell,  departed  from  the  earth,  and  we  were  left  alone 
with  the  breathless  and  inaudible  Nature  from  which  spring 
the  love  and  the  life  of  all  things. 

Isora  slowly  recovered;  her  eyes  in  opening  dwelt  upon 
mine ;  her  blood  rushed  at  once  to  her  cheek,  and  as  suddenly 
left  it  hueless  as  before.  She  rose  from  my  embrace,  but  I 
still  extended  my  arms  towards  her ;  and  words  over  which  I 
had  no  control,  and  of  which  now  I  have  no  remembrance, 
rushed  from  my  lips.  Still  pale,  and  leaning  against  the 
side  of  the  arbour,  Isora  heard  me,  as  —  confused,  incoherent, 
impetuous,  but  still  intelligible  to  her  —  my  released  heart 
poured  itself  forth.  And  when  I  had  ceased,  she  turned  her 
face  towards  me,  and  my  blood  seemed  at  once  frozen  in  its 
channel.  Anguish,  deep  ineffable  anguish,  was  depicted  upon 
every  feature ;  and  when  she  strove  at  last  to  speak,  her  lips 
quivered  so  violently  that,  after  a  vain  effort,  she  ceased 
abruptly.  I  again  approached;  I  seized  her  hand,  which  I 
covered  with  my  kisses. 

"Will  you  not  answer  me,  Isora?"  said  I,  trembling. 
"5e  silent,  then;  but  give  me  one  look,  one  glance  of  hope, 
of  pardon,  from  those  dear  eyes,  and  I  ask  no  more," 

Isora's  whole  frame  seemed  sinking  beneath  her  emotions ; 


62  DEVEREUX. 

she  raised  her  head,  and  looked  hurriedly  and  fearfully  round ; 
my  eye  followed  hers,  and  I  then  saw  upon  the  damp  ground 
the  recent  print  of  a  man's  footstep,  not  my  own :  and  close 
to  the  spot  where  I  had  found  Isora  lay  a  man's  glove.  A 
pang  shot  through  me;  I  felt  my  eyes  flash  fire,  and  my  brow 
darken,  as  I  turned  to  Isora  and  said,  "I  see  it;  I  see  all: 
I  have  a  rival,  who  has  but  just  left  you;  you  love  me  not; 
your  affections  are  for  him!"  Isora  sobbed  violently,  but 
made  no  reply.  "You  love  him,"  said  I,  but  in  a  milder 
and  more  mournful  tone,  "you  love  him;  it  is  enough;  I  will 
persecute  you  no  more ;  and  yet  —  "  I  paused  a  moment,  for 
the  remembrance  of  many  a  sign,  which  my  heart  had  inter- 
preted flatteringly,  flashed  upon  me,  and  my  voice  faltered. 
"  Well,  I  have  no  right  to  murmur  —  only,  Isora  —  only  tell 
me  with  your  lips  that  you  love  another,  and  I  will  depart  in 
peace." 

Very  slowly  Isora  turned  her  eyes  to  me,  and  even  through 
her  tears  they  dwelt  upon  me  with  a  tender  and  a  soft 
reproach. 

"  You  love  another  ? "  said  I ;  and  from  her  lips,  which 
scarcely  parted,  came  a  single  word  which  thrilled  to  my 
heart  like  fire,— "iVo/" 

"No!"  I  repeated,  "no?  say  that  again,  and  again;  yet 
who  then  is  this  that  has  dared  so  to  agitate  and  overpower 
you  ?  Who  is  he  whom  you  have  met,  and  whom,  even  now 
while  I  speak,  you  tremble  to  hear  me  recur  to  ?  Answer  me 
one  word:  is  it  this  mysterious  stranger  whom  your  father 
honours  with  his  friendship  ?   is  it  Barnard  ? " 

Alarm  and  fear  again  wholly  engrossed  the  expression  of 
Isora's  countenance. 

"  Barnard !  "  she  said ;  "  yes  —  yes  —  it  is  Barnard !  " 

"Who  is  he  ?  "  I  cried  vehemently;  "who  or  what  is  he;  and 
of  what  nature  is  his  influence  upon  you?  Confide  in  me," 
and  I  poured  forth  a  long  tide  of  inquiry  and  solicitation. 

By  the  time  I  had  ended,  Isora  seemed  to  have  recovered 
herself.  With  her  softness  was  mingled  something  of  spirit 
and  self-control,  which  was  rare  alike  in  her  country  and 
her  sex. 


DEVEREUX.  53 

"  Listen  to  me ! "  said  she,  and  lier  voice,  which  faltered  a 
little  at  first,  grew  calm  and  firm  as  she  proceeded.  "You 
profess  to  love  me :  I  am  not  worthy  your  love ;  and  if,  Count 
Devereux,  I  do  not  reject  nor  disclaim  it  —  for  I  am  a  woman, 
and  a  weak  and  fond  one  —  I  will  not  at  least  wrong  you  by 
encouraging  hopes  which  I  may  not  and  I  dare  not  fulfil.  I 
cannot, —  "here  she  spoke  with  a  fearful  distinctness, —  "I 
cannot,  I  can  never  be  yours ;  and  when  you  ask  me  to  be  so, 
you  know  not  what  you  ask  nor  what  perils  you  incur. 
Enough ;  I  am  grateful  to  you.  The  poor  exiled  girl  is  grate- 
ful for  your  esteem  —  and  —  and  your  affection.  She  will 
never  forget  them, — never!  But  be  this  our  last  meeting  — 
our  very  last  —  God  bless  you,  Morton !  "  and,  as  she  read  my 
heart,  pierced  and  agonized  as  it  was,  in  my  countenance, 
Isora  bent  over  me,  for  I  knelt  beside  her,  and  I  felt  her  tears 
upon  my  cheek, —  "God  bless  you  —  and  farewell!  " 

"You  insult,  you  wound  me,"  said  I,  bitterly,  "by  this  cold 
and  taunting  kindness;  tell  me,  tell  me  only,  who  it  is  that 
you  love  better  than  me." 

Isora  had  turned  to  leave  me,  for  I  was  too  proud  to  detain 
her;  but  when  I  said  this,  she  came  back,  after  a  moment's 
pause,   and  laid  her  hand  upon  my  arm. 

"  If  it  make  you  happy  to  know  my  unhappiness, "  she  said, 
and  the  tone  of  her  voice  made  me  look  full  in  her  face,  which 
was  one  deep  blush,  "know  that  I  am  not  insensible  —  " 

I  heard  no  more :  my  lips  pressed  themselves  involuntarily 
to  hers, — along,  long  kiss, —  burning,  intense,  concentrating 
emotion,  heart,  soul,  all  the  rays  of  life's  light  into  a  single 
focus ;  and  she  tore  herself  away  from  me,  —  and  I  was 
alone. 


54  DEVEREUX. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A    DISCOVERY   AND   A   DEPARTURE. 

I  HASTENED  home  after  my  eventful  interview  with  Isora, 
and  gave  myself  up  to  tumultuous  and  wild  conjecture.  Au- 
brey sought  me  the  next  morning :  I  narrated  to  him  all  that 
had  occurred:  he  said  little,  but  that  little  enraged  me, 
for  it  was  contrary  to  the  dictates  of  my  own  wishes.  The 
character  of  Morose  in  the  "  Silent  Woman  "  is  by  no  means  an 
uncommon  one.  Many  men  —  certainly  many  lovers  —  would 
say  with  equal  truth,  always  provided  they  had  equal  candour, 
"All  discourses  but  my  own  afflict  me;  they  seem  harsh,  im- 
pertinent, and  irksome."  Certainly  I  felt  that  amiable  senti- 
ment most  sincerely  with  regard  to  Aubrey.  I  left  him 
abruptly:  a  resolution  possessed  me.  "I  will  see,"  said  I, 
"this  Barnard;  I  will  lie  in  wait  for  him;  I  will  demand  and 
obtain,  though  it  be  by  force,  the  secret  which  evidently 
subsists  between  him  and  this  exiled  family." 

Full  of  this  idea,  I  drew  my  cloak  round  me,  and  repaired 
on  foot  to  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Spaniard's  cottage.  There 
was  no  place  near  it  very  commodious  for  accommodation 
both  of  vigil  and  concealment.  However,  I  made  a  little  hill, 
in  a  field  opposite  the  house,  my  warder's  station,  and,  lying 
at  full  length  on  the  ground,  wrapt  in  my  cloak,  I  trusted  to 
escape  notice.  The  day  passed:  no  visitor  appeared.  The 
next  morning  I  went  from  my  own  rooms,  through  the  subter- 
ranean passage  into  the  castle  cave,  as  the  excavation  I  have 
before  described  was  generally  termed.  On  the  shore  I  saw 
Gerald  by  one  of  the  small  fishing-boats  usually  kept  there. 
I  passed  him  with  a  sneer  at  his  amusements,  which  were  al- 
ways those  of  conflicts  against  fish  or  fowl.  He  answered  me 
in  the  same  strain,  as  he  threw  his  nets  into  the  boat,  and 
pushed  out  to  sea.     "  How  is  it  that  you  go  alone  ?  "  said  I ; 


DEVEREUX.  55 

"  is  there  so  much  glory  in  the  capture  of  mackerel  and  dog- 
fish that  you  will  allow  no  one  to  share  it  ?  " 

" There  are  other  sports  besides  those  for  men,"  answered 
Gerald,  colouring  indignantly :  "  my  taste  is  confined  to  amuse- 
ments in  which  he  is  but  a  fool  who  seeks  companionship; 
and  if  you  could  read  character  better,  my  wise  brother,  you 
would  know  that  the  bold  rover  is  ever  less  idle  and  more 
fortunate  than  the  speculative  dreamer." 

As  Gerald  said  this,  Avhich  he  did  with  a  significant  empha- 
sis, he  rowed  vigorously  across  the  water,  and  the  little  boat 
was  soon  half  way  to  the  opposite  islet.  My  eyes  followed  it 
musingly  as  it  glided  over  the  waves,  and  my  thoughts  pain- 
fully revolved  the  words  which  Gerald  had  uttered.  "  What 
can  he  mean  ? "  said  I,  half  aloud ;  "  yet  what  matters  it  ? 
Perhaps  some  low  amour,  some  village  conquest,  inspires 
him  with  that  becoming  fulness  of  pride  and  vain-glory;  joy 
be  with  so  bold  a  rover !  "  and  I  strode  away  along  the  beach 
towards  my  place  of  watch;  once  only  I  turned  to  look  at 
Gerald;  he  had  then  just  touched  the  islet,  which  was  cele- 
brated as  much  for  the  fishing  it  afforded  as  the  smuggling 
it  protected. 

I  arrived  at  last  at  the  hillock,  and  resumed  my  station. 
Time  passed  on,  till,  at  the  dusk  of  evening,  the  Spaniard 
came  out.  He  walked  slowly  towards  the  town;  I  followed 
him  at  a  distance.  Just  before  he  reached  the  town,  he  turned 
off  by  a  path  which  led  to  the  beach.  As  the  evening  was 
unusually  fresh  and  chill,  I  felt  convinced  that  some  cause, 
not  wholly  trivial,  drew  the  Spaniard  forth  to  brave  it.  My 
pride  a  little  revolted  at  the  idea  of  following  him ;  but  I  per- 
suaded myself  that  Isora's  happiness,  and  perhaps  her  father's 
safety,  depended  on  my  obtaining  some  knowledge  of  the 
character  and  designs  of  this  Barnard,  who  appeared  to  pos- 
sess so  dangerous  an  influence  over  both  daughter  and  sire; 
nor  did  I  doubt  but  that  the  old  man  was  now  gone  forth  to 
meet  him.  The  times  were  those  of  mystery  and  of  intrigue: 
the  emissaries  of  the  House  of  Stuart  were  restlessly  at  work 
among  all  classes ;  many  of  them,  obscure  and  mean  individ- 
uals, made  their  way  the  more  dangerously  from  their  appar- 


56  DEVEREUX. 

ent  insignificance.  My  uncle,  a  moderate  Tory,  was  opposed, 
though  quietly  and  without  vehemence,  to  the  claims  of  the 
banished  House.  Like  Sedley,  who  became  so  stanch  a  revo- 
lutionist, he  had  seen  the  Court  of  Charles  II.  and  the  char- 
acter of  that  King's  brother  too  closely  to  feel  much  respect 
for  either;  but  he  thought  it  indecorous  to  express  opposition 
loudly  against  a  party  among  whom  were  many  of  his  early 
friends ;  and  the  good  old  knight  was  too  much  attached  to 
private  ties  to  be  very  much  alive  to  public  feeling.  How- 
ever, at  his  well-filled  board,  conversation,  generally,  though 
displeasingly  to  himself,  turned  upon  politics,  and  I  had  there 
often  listened,  of  late,  to  dark  hints  of  the  danger  to  which 
we  were  exposed,  and  of  the  restless  machinations  of  the 
Jacobites.  I  did  not,  therefore,  scruple  to  suspect  this  Bar- 
nard of  some  plot  against  the  existing  state,  and  I  did  it  the 
more  from  observing  that  the  Spaniard  often  spoke  bitterly 
of  the  English  Court,  which  had  rejected  some  claims  he  had 
imagined  himself  entitled  to  make  upon  it ;  and  that  he  was 
naturally  of  a  temper  vehemently  opposed  to  quiet  and  alive 
to  enterprise.  With  this  impression,  I  deemed  it  fair  to  seize 
any  opportunity  of  seeing,  at  least,  even  if  I  could  not  ques- 
tion, the  man  whom  the  Spaniard  himself  confessed  to  have 
state  reasons  for  concealment;  and  my  anxiety  to  behold  one 
whose  very  name  could  agitate  Isora,  and  whose  presence 
could  occasion  the  state  in  which  I  had  found  her,  sharpened 
this  desire  into  the  keenness  of  a  passion. 

While  Alvarez  descended  to  the  beach,  I  kept  the  upper 
path,  which  wound  along  the  cliff.  There  was  a  spot  where 
the  rocks  were  rude  and  broken  into  crags,  and  afforded  me  a 
place  where,  unseen,  I  could  behold  what  passed  below.  The 
first  thing  I  beheld  was  a  boat  approaching  rapidly  towards 
the  shore ;  one  man  was  seated  in  it ;  he  reached  the  shore, 
and  I  recognized  Gerald.  That  was  a  dreadful  moment.  Al- 
varez now  slowly  joined  him;  they  remained  togetjier  for 
nearly  an  hour.  I  saw  Gerald  give  the  Spaniard  a  letter, 
which  appeared  to  make  the  chief  subject  of  their  conversa- 
tion. At  length  they  parted,  with  the  signs  rather  of  respect 
than  familiarity.     Don  Diego  returned  homeward,  and  Gerald 


DEVEREUX.  67 

re-entered  the  boat.  I  watched  its  progress  over  the  waves 
with  feelings  of  a  dark  and  almost  unutterable  nature.  "  My 
enemy!  my  rival!  miner  of  my  hopes!  — my  brother !  my  twin 
brother  !  "  I  muttered  bitterly  between  my  ground  teeth. 

The  boat  did  not  make  to  the  open  sea :  it  skulked  along 
the  shore,  till  distance  and  shadow  scarcely  allowed  me  to 
trace  the  outline  of  Gerald's  figure.  It  then  touched  the 
beach,  and  I  could  just  descry  the  dim  shape  of  another  man 
enter;  and  Gerald,  instead  of  returning  homewards,  pushed 
out  towards  the  islet.  I  spent  the  greater  part  of  the  night 
in  the  open  air.  Wearied  and  exhausted  by  the  furious  indul- 
gence of  my  passions,  I  gained  my  room  at  length.  There, 
however,  as  elsewhere,  thought  succeeded  to  thought,  and 
scheme  to  scheme.  Should  I  speak  to  Gerald  ?  Should  I 
confide  in  Alvarez  ?  Should  I  renew  my  suit  to  Isora  ?  If 
the  first,  what  could  I  hope  to  learu  from  my  enemy?  If 
the  second,  what  could  I  gain  from  the  father,  while  the 
daughter  remained  averse  to  me?  If  the  third,  —  there  my 
heart  pointed,  and  the  third  scheme  I  resolved  to  adopt. 

But  was  I  sure  that  Gerald  was  this  Barnard  ?  Might 
there  not  be  some  hope  that  he  was  not  ?  No,  I  could  per- 
ceive none.  Alvarez  had  never  spoken  to  me  of  acquaintance 
with  any  other  Englishman  than  Barnard;  I  had  no  reason  to 
believe  that  he  ever  held  converse  with  any  other.  Would 
it  not  have  been  natural  too,  unless  some  powerful  cause,  such 
as  love  to  Isora,  induced  silence, —  would  it  not  have  been 
natural  that  Gerald  should  have  mentioned  his  acquaintance 
with  the  Spaniard  ?  Unless  some  dark  scheme,  such  as  that 
which  Barnard  appeared  to  have  in  common  with  Don  Diego, 
commanded  obscurity,  would  it  have  been  likely  that  Gerald 
should  have  met  Alvarez  alone,  —  at  night, —  on  an  unfre- 
quented spot?  What  that  scheme  xcas,  I  guessed  not, —  I 
cared  not.  All  my  interest  in  the  identity  of  Barnard  with 
GeralcL  Devereux  was  that  derived  from  the  power  he  seemed 
to  possess  over  Isora.  Here,  too,  at  once,  was  explained  the 
pretended  Barnard's  desire  of  concealment,  and  the  vigilance 
with  which  it  had  been  effected.  It  was  so  certain  that 
Gerald,  if  my  rival,  would  seek  to  avoid  me ;  it  was  so  easy 


68  DEVEREUX. 

for  him,  who  could  watch  all  my  motions,  to  secure  the  power 
of  doing  so.  Then  I  remembered  Gerald's  character  through 
the  country  as  a  gallant  and  a  general  lover ;  and  I  closed  my 
eyes  as  if  to  shut  out  the  vision  when  I  recalled  the  beauty  of 
his  form  contrasted  with  the  comparative  plainness  of  my 
own. 

"  There  is  no  hope, "  I  repeated ;  and  an  insensibility,  rather 
than  sleep,  crept  over  me.  Dreadful  and  fierce  dreams  peo- 
pled my  slumbers ;  and,  when  I  started  from  them  at  a  late 
hour  the  next  day,  I  was  unable  to  rise  from  my  bed:  my 
agitation  and  my  wanderings  had  terminated  in  a  burning 
fever.  In  four  days,  however,  I  recovered  sufficiently  to 
mount  my  horse:  I  rode  to  the  Spaniard's  house;  I  found 
there  only  the  woman  who  had  been  Don  Diego's  solitary 
domestic.  The  morning  before,  Alvarez  and  his  daughter 
had  departed,  none  knew  for  certain  whither;  but  it  was 
supposed  their  destination  was  London.  The  woman  gave  me 
a  note:  it  was  from  Isora;  it  contained  only  these  lines:  — 

Forget  me :  we  are  now  parted  forever.     As  you  value  my  peace  of 

mind  —  of  happiness  I  do  not  speak  —  seek  not  to  discover  our  next 

retreat.     1  implore  you  to  think  no  more  of  what  has  been ;  you  are 

young,  very  young.     Life  has  a  thousand  paths  for  you ;  any  one  of 

them  will  lead  you  from  remembrance  of  me.     Farewell,  again  and 

again  I 

Isora  D' Alvarez. 

With  this  note  was  another,  in  French,  from  Don  Diego :  it 
was  colder  and  more  formal  than  I  could  have  expected;  it 
thanked  me  for  my  attentions  towards  him;  it  regretted  that 
he  could  not  take  leave  of  me  in  person,  and  it  enclosed  the 
sum  by  the  loan  of  which  our  acquaintance  had  commenced. 

"  It  is  well !  "  said  I,  calmly,  to  myself,  "  it  is  well ;  I  will 
forget  her:"  and  I  rode  instantly  home.  "But,"  I  resumed 
in  my  soliloqiiy,  "  I  will  yet  strive  to  obtain  confirmation  to 
what  perhaps  needs  it  not.  I  will  yet  strive  to  see  if  Gerald 
can  deny  the  depth  of  his  injuries  towards  me ;  there  will  be 
at  least  some  comfort  in  witnessing  either  his  defiance  or  his 
confusion." 


DEVEREUX.  59 

Agreeably  to  this  thought,  I  hastened  to  seek  Gerald.  I 
found  him  in  his  apartment ;  I  shut  the  door,  and  seating  my- 
self, with  a  smile  thus  addressed  him,  — 

"Dear  Gerald,  I  have  a  favour  to  ask  of  you." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  How  long  have  you  known  a  certain  Mr.  Barnard  ? " 
Gerald  changed  colour;  his  voice  faltered  as  he  repeated  the 
name  "  Barnard !  " 

"  Yes, "  said  I,  with  affected  composure,  "  Barnard !  a  great 
friend  of  Don  Diego  D' Alvarez." 

"I  perceive,"  said  Gerald,  collecting  himself,  "that  you 
are  in  some  measure  acquainted  with  my  secret:  how  far 
it  is  known  to  you  I  cannot  guess;  but  I  tell  you,  very 
fairly,  that  from  me  you  will  not  increase  the  sum  of  your 
knowledge." 

When  one  is  in  a  good  sound  rage,  it  is  astonishing  how 
calm  one  can  be!  I  was  certainly  somewhat  amazed  by 
Gerald's  hardihood  and  assurance,  but  I  continued,  with  a 
smile, — 

"  And  Donna  Isora,  how  long,  if  not  very  intrusive  on  your 
confidence,  have  you  known  her  ?  " 

"I  tell  you,"  answered  Gerald,  doggedly,  "that  I  will 
answer  no  questions." 

"You  remember  the  old  story,"  returned  I,  "of  the  two 
brothers,  Eteocles  and  Polynices,  whose  very  ashes  refused  to 
mingle ;  faith,  Gerald,  our  love  seems  much  of  the  same  sort. 
I  know  not  if  our  ashes  will  exhibit  so  laudible  an  antipathy : 
but  I  think  our  hearts  and  hands  will  do  so  while  a  spark  of 
life  animates  them;  yes,  though  our  blood"  (I  added,  in  a 
voice  quivering  with  furious  emotion)  "prevents  our  contest 
by  the  sword,  it  prevents  not  the  hatred  and  the  curses  of  the 
heart." 

Gerald  turned  pale.  "I  do  not  understand  you,"  he  faltered 
out, —  "I  know  you  abhor  me;  but  why,  why  this  excess  of 
malice  ?  " 

I  cast  on  him  a  look  of  bitter  scorn,  and  turned  from  the 
room. 

It  is  not  pleasing  to  place  before  the  reader  these  dark 


60  DEVEREUX. 

passages  of  fraternal  hatred :  but  in  the  record  of  all  passions 
there  is  a  moral ;  and  it  is  wise  to  see  to  how  vast  a  sum  the 
units  of  childish  animosity  swell,  when  they  are  once  brought 
into  a  heap,  by  some  violent  event,  and  told  over  by  the  nice 
accuracy  of  Revenge. 

But  I  long  to  pass  from  these  scenes,  and  my  history  is 
about  to  glide  along  others  of  more  glittering  and  smiling 
aspect.  Thank  Heaven,  I  write  a  tale,  not  only  of  love,  but 
of  a  life;  and  that  which  I  cannot  avoid  I  can  at  least  condense. 


CHAPTER  X. 

A  VERT  SHORT  CHAPTER, CONTAINING  A  VALET. 

My  uncle  for  several  weeks  had  flattered  himself  that  I  had 
quite  forgotten  or  foregone  the  desire  of  leaving  Devereux 
Court  for  London.  Good  easy  man !  he  was  not  a  little  dis- 
tressed when  I  renewed  the  subject  with  redoubled  firmness, 
and  demanded  an  early  period  for  that  event.  He  managed, 
however,  still  to  protract  the  evil  day.  At  one  time  it  was 
impossible  to  part  with  me,  because  the  house  was  so  full ;  at 
another  time  it  was  cruel  to  leave  him,  when  the  house  was  so 
empty.  Meanwhile,  a  new  change  came  over  me.  As  the 
first  shock  of  Isora's  departure  passed  away,  I  began  to  sus- 
pect the  purity  of  her  feelings  towards  me.  Might  not  Ger- 
ald—  the  beautiful,  the  stately,  the  glittering  Gerald  —  have 
been  a  successful  wooer  under  the  disguised  name  of  Barnard, 
and  hence  Isora's  confusion  when  that  name  was  mentioned, 
and  hence  the  power  which  its  possessor  exercised  over  her  ? 

This  idea,  once  admitted,  soon  gained  ground.  It  is  true 
that  Isora  had  testified  something  of  favourable  feelings  to- 
wards me;  but  this  might  spring  from  coquetry  or  compas- 
sion. My  love  had  been  a  boy's  love,  founded  upon  beauty 
and  coloured  by  romance.  I  had  not  investigated  the  char- 
acter of  the  object;  and  I  had  judged  of  the  mind  solely  by 


DEVEREUX.  61 

the  face.  I  might  easily  have  been  deceived:  I  persuaded 
myself  that  I  was.  Perhaps  Gerald  had  provided  their  pres- 
ent retreat  for  sire  and  daughter;  perhaps  they  at  this  mo- 
ment laughed  over  my  rivalry  and  my  folly.  Methought 
Gerald's  lip  wore  a  contemptuous  curve  when  we  met.  "It 
shall  have  no  cause,"  I  said,  stung  to  the  soul;  "I  will  in- 
deed forget  this  woman,  and  yet,  though  in  other  ways,  eclipse 
this  rival.  Pleasure,  ambition,  the  brilliancy  of  a  court,  the 
resources  of  wealth,  invite  me  to  a  thousand  joys.  I  will 
not  be  deaf  to  the  call.  Meanwhile  I  will  not  betray  to 
Gerald,  to  any  one,  the  scar  of  the  wound  I  have  received; 
and  I  will  mortify  Gerald,  by  showing  him  that,  handsome  as 
he  is,  he  shall  be  forgotten  in  my  presence ! " 

Agreeably  to  this  exquisite  resolution,  I  paid  incessant  court 
to  the  numerous  dames  by  whom  my  uncle's  mansion  was 
thronged;  and  I  resolved  to  prepare,  among  them,  the  repu- 
tation for  gallantry  and  for  wit  which  I  proposed  to  establish 
in  town. 

"You  are  greatly  altered  since  your  love,"  said  Aubrey, 
one  day  to  me,  "but  not  by  your  love.  Own  that  I  did  right 
in  dissuading  you  from  its  indulgence !  " 

"  Tell  me ! "  said  I,  sinking  my  voice  to  a  whisper,  "  do  you 
think  Gerald  was  my  rival  ?  "  and  I  recounted  the  causes  of 
my  suspicion. 

Aubrey's  countenance  testified  astonishment  as  he  listened. 
"It  is  strange,  very  strange,"  said  he;  "and  the  evidence  of 
the  boat  is  almost  conclusive;  still  I  do  not  think  it  quite 
sufficient  to  leave  no  loop-hole  of  doubt.  But  what  matters 
it  ?  you  have  conquered  your  love  now." 

"Ay,"  I  said,  with  a  laugh,  "I  have  conquered  it,  and  I 
am  now  about  to  find  some  other  empress  of  the  heart.  What 
think  you  of  the  Lady  Hasselton? —  a  fair  dame  and  a  sprightly. 
I  want  nothing  but  her  love  to  be  the  most  enviable  of  men, 
and  a  French  valet-de-chamhre  to  be  the  most  irresistible." 

"The  former  is  easier  to  obtain  than  the  latter,  I  fear,"  re- 
turned Aubrey ;  "  all  places  produce  light  dames,  but  the  war 
makes  a  scarcity  of  French  valets." 

"True,"  said  I,  "but  I  never  thought  of  instituting  a  com- 


62  DEVEREUX. 

parison  between  their  relative  value.  The  Lady  Hasselton, 
no  disparagement  to  her  merits,  is  but  one  woman;  but  a 
French  valet  who  knows  his  metier  arms  one  for  conquest 
over  a  thousand ; "    and  I  turned  to  the  saloon. 

Fate,  which  had  destined  to  me  the  valuable  affections  of 
the  Lady  Hasselton,  granted  me  also,  at  a  yet  earlier  period, 
the  greater  boon  of  a  French  valet.  About  two  or  three  weeks 
after  this  sapient  communication  with  Aubrey,  the  most 
charming  person  in  the  world  presented  himself  a  candidate 
pou7'  le  supreme  bonheur  de  soigner  Monsieur  le  Comte.  In- 
telligence beamed  in  his  eye;  a  modest  assurance  reigned 
upon  his  brow;  respect  made  his  step  vigilant  as  a  zephyr's; 
and  his  ruffles  were  the  envy  of  the  world! 

I  took  him  at  a  glance ;  and  1  presented  to  the  admiring  in- 
mates of  the  house  a  greater  coxcomb  than  the  Count  Deve- 
reux  in  the  ethereal  person  of  Jean  Desmarais. 


CHAPTER    XI. 

THE   HERO   ACQUITS    HIMSELF    HONOURABLY    AS    A   COXCOMB. 

A  FINE  LADY  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY,  AND  A  FASH- 
IONABLE dialogue;  the  SUBSTANCE  OF  FASHIONABLE  DIA- 
LOGUE  BEING   IN   ALL   CENTURIES    THE   SAME. 

"  I  AM  thinking,  Morton, "  said  my  uncle,  "  that  if  you  are 
to  go  to  town,  you  should  go  in  a  style  suitable  to  your  rank. 
What  say  you  to  flying  along  the  road  in  my  green  and  gold 
chariot?  'Sdeath!  I'll  make  you  a  present  of  it.  Nay  — 
no  thanks;  and  you  may  have  four  of  my  black  Flanders 
mares  to  draw  you." 

"Now,  my  dear  Sir  William,"  cried  Lady  Hasselton,  who, 
it  may  be  remembered,  was  the  daughter  of  one  of  King 
Charles's  Beauties,  and  who  alone  shared  the  breakfast-room 
with  my  uncle  and  myself> — "now,  my  dear  Sir  William,  I 


DEVEREUX.  63 

think  it  would  be  a  better  plan  to  suffer  the  Count  to  accom- 
pany us  to  town.  We  go  next  week.  He  shall  have  a  seat  in 
our  coach,  help  Lovell  to  pay  our  post-horses,  protect  us  at 
inns,  scold  at  the  drawers  in  the  pretty  oaths  of  the  fashion, 
which  are  so  innocent  that  I  will  teach  them  to  his  Countship 
myself;  and  unless  I  am  much  more  frightful  than  my  hon- 
oured mother,  whose  beauties  you  so  gallantly  laud,  I  think 
you  will  own.  Sir  William,  that  this  is  better  for  your  nephew 
than  doing  solitary  penance  in  your  chariot  of  green  and  gold, 
with  a  handkerchief  tied  over  his  head  to  keep  away  cold, 
and  with  no  more  fanciful  occupation  than  composing  sonnets 
to  the  four  Flanders  mares." 

"'Sdeath,  Madam,  you  inherit  your  mother's  wit  as  well 
as  beauty,"  cried  my  uncle,  with  an  impassioned  air. 

"And  his  Countship,"  said  I,  "will  accept  your  invitation 
without  asking  his  uncle's  leave." 

"Come,  that  is  bold  for  a  gentleman  of  —  let  me  see, 
thirteen  —  are  you  not  ?  " 

"Really,"  answered  I,  "one  learns  to  forget  time  so  terribly 
in  the  presence  of  Lady  Hasselton  that  I  do  not  remember 
even  how  long  it  has  existed  for  me." 

"Bravo!"  cried  the  knight,  with  a  moistening  eye;  "you 
see.  Madam,  the  boy  has  not  lived  with  his  old  uncle  for 
nothing." 

"  I  am  lost  in  astonishment ! "  said  the  lady,  glancing  to- 
wards the  glass ;  "  why,  you  will  eclipse  all  our  beaux  at  your 
first  appearance ;  but  —  but  —  Sir  William  —  how  green  those 
glasses  have  become!  Bless  me,  there  is  something  so  conta- 
gious in  the  effects  of  the  country  that  the  very  mirrors  grow 
verdant.  But  —  Count  —  Count  —  where  are  you.  Count  ?  [I 
was  exactly  opposite  to  the  fair  speaker.]  Oh,  there  you  are! 
Pray,  do  you  carry  a  little  pocket-glass  of  the  true  quality 
about  you?    But,  of  course  you  do;   lend  it  me." 

"  I  have  not  the  glass  you  want,  but  I  carry  with  me  a  mir- 
ror that  reflects  your  features  much  more  faithfully." 

"  How !     I  protest  I  do  not  understand  you !  " 

"  The  mirror  is  here ! "  said  I,  laying  my  hand  to  my 
heart. 


64  DEVEREUX. 

"  'Gad,  I  must  kiss  the  boy!  "  cried  my  uncle,  starting  up. 

"I  have  sworn,"  said  I,  fixing  my  eyes  upon  the  lady, —  "I 
have  sworn  never  to  be  kissed,  even  by  women.  You  must 
pardon  me,   Uncle." 

"I  declare,"  cried  the  Lady  Hasselton,  flirting  her  fan, 
which  was  somewhat  smaller  than  the  screen  that  one  puts 
into  a  great  hall,  in  order  to  take  off  the  discomfort  of  too 
large  a  room, —  "I  declare.  Count,  there  is  a  vast  deal  of  orig- 
inality about  you.  But  tell  me,  Sir  William,  where  did  your 
nephew  acquire,  at  so  early  an  age  —  eleven,  you  say,  he  is 
—  such  a  fund  of  agreeable  assurance  ?  "• 

"Nay,  Madam,  let  the  boy  answer  for  himself." 

"Imprimis,  then,"  said  I,  playing  with  the  ribbon  of  my 
cane, —  '^imprimis,  early  study  of  the  best  authors, —  Con- 
greve  and  Farquhar,  Etherege  and  Eochester;  secondly,  the 
constant  intercourse  of  company  which  gives  one  the  spleen 
so  overpoweringly  that  despair  inspires  one  with  boldness  — 
to  get  rid  of  them ;  thirdly,  the  personal  example  of  Sir  Wil- 
liam Devereux;  and,  fourthly,  the  inspiration  of  hope." 

*'  Hope,  sir  ? "  said  the  Lady  Hasselton,  covering  her  face 
with  her  fan,  so  as  only  to  leave  me  a  glimpse  of  the  farthest 
patch  upon  her  left  cheek, —  "  hope,  sir  ?  " 

"Yes,  the  hope  of  being  pleasing  to  you.  Suffer  me  to  add 
that  the  hope  has  now  become  certainty." 

"  Upon  my  word.  Count  —  " 

"Nay,  you  cannot  deny  it;  if  one  can  once  succeed  in  im- 
pudence, one  is  irresistible." 

"Sir  William,"  cried  Lady  Hasselton,  "you  may  give  the 
Count  your  chariot  of  green  and  gold,  and  your  four  Flanders 
mares,  and  send  his  mother's  maid  with  him.  He  shall  not 
go  with  me." 

"  Cruel !  and  why  ?  "  said  I. 

"  You  are  too  "  —  the  lady  paused,  and  looked  at  me  over 
her  fan.  She  Avas  really  very  handsome  —  "  you  are  too  old, 
Count.     You  must  be  more  than  nine." 

"Pardon  me,"  said  I,  "I  am  nine, —  a  very  mystical  num- 
ber nine  is  too,  and  represents  the  Muses,  who,  you  know, 
were  always  attendant  upon  Venus  —  or  you,  which  is   the 


DEVEREUX.  65 

same  thing;  so  you  can  no  more  dispense  with  my  company 
than  you  can  with  that  of  the  Graces." 

"Good  morning,  Sir  William,"  cried  the  Lady  Hasselton, 
rising. 

I  offered  to  hand  her  to  the  door ;  with  great  difficulty,  for 
her  hoop  was  of  the  very  newest  enormity  of  circumference,  I 
effected  this  object.  "Well,  Count,"  said  she,  "I  am  glad  to 
see  you  have  brought  so  much  learning  from  school;  make 
the  best  use  of  it  while  it  lasts,  for  your  memory  will  not 
furnish  you  with  a  single  simile  out  of  the  mythology  by  the 
end  of  next  winter." 

"That  would  be  a  pity,"  said  I,  "for  I  intend  having  as 
many  goddesses  as  the  heathens  had,  and  I  should  like  to 
worship  them  in  a  classical  fashion." 

"  Oh,  the  young  reprobate !  "  said  the  beauty,  tapping  me 
with  her  fan.  "  And  pray,  what  other  deities  besides  Venus 
do  I  resemble  ?  " 

"All!  "  said  I,— "at  least,  all  the  celestial  ones!  " 

Though  half  way  through  the  door,  the  beauty  extricated 
her  hoop,  and  drew  back.  "  Bless  me,  the  gods  as  well  as  the 
goddesses  ?  " 

"Certainly." 

"You  jest:  tell  me  how." 

"  ISTothing  can  be  easier ;  you  resemble  Mercury  because  of 
your  thefts." 

"Thefts!" 

"Ay;  stolen  hearts,  and,"  added  I,  in  a  whisper,  "glances; 
Jupiter,  partly  because  of  your  lightning,  which  you  lock  up 
in  the  said  glances, — principally  because  all  things  are  sub- 
servient to  you;  Neptune,  because  you  are  as  changeable  as 
the  seas;  Vulcan,  because  you  live  among  the  flames  you  ex- 
cite; and  Mars,  because  —  " 

"You  are  so  destructive,"  cried  my  uncle. 

"Exactly  so;  and  because,"  added  I  —  as  I  shut  the  door 
upon  the  beauty  —  "  because,  thanks  to  your  hoop,  you  cover 
nine  acres  of  ground." 

"Ods  fish,  Morton,"  said  my  uncle,  "you  surprise  me  at 
times:  one  while  you  are  so  reserved,  at  another  so  assured; 

5 


66  DEYEREUX. 

to-day  so  brisk,  to-morrow  so  gloomy.  Why  now,  Lady  Has- 
selton  (she  is  very  comely,  eh!  faith,  but  not  comparable  to 
her  mother)  told  me,  a  week  ago,  that  she  gave  you  up  in  de- 
spair, that  you  were  dull,  past  hoping  for;  and  now,  'Gad, 
you  had  a  life  in  you  that  Sid  himself  could  not  have  sur- 
passed.    How  comes  it.   Sir,  eh  ? " 

"Why,  Uncle,  you  have  explained  the  reason;  it  was 
exactly  because  she  said  I  was  dull  that  I  was  resolved  to 
convict  her  in  an  untruth." 

"  Well,  now,  there  is  some  sense  in  that,  boy ;  always  con- 
tradict ill  report  by  personal  merit.  But  what  think  you  of 
her  ladyship  ?  'Gad,  you  know  what  old  Bellair  said  of 
Emilia.  '  Make  much  of  her:  she  's  one  of  the  best  of  your 
acquaintance.  I  like  her  countenance  and  behaviour.  Well, 
she  has  a  modesty  not  i'  this  age,  a-dad  she  has. '  A^jplicable 
enough ;  eh,  boy  ?  " 

"'I  know  her  value.  Sir,  and  esteem  her  accordingly,' "  an- 
swered I,  out  of  the  same  play,  which  by  dint  of  long  study  I 
had  got  by  heart.  "But,  to  confess  the  truth,"  added  I,  "I 
think  you  might  have  left  out  the  passage  about  her 
modesty." 

"There,  now;  you  young  chaps  are  so  censorious;  why, 
'sdeath,  sir,  you  don't  think  the  worse  of  her  virtue  because 
of  her  wit?" 

"Humph!" 

"Ah,  boy!  when  you  are  my  age,  you'll  know  that  your 
demure  cats  are  not  the  best;  and  that  reminds  me  of  a  little 
story ;  shall  I  tell  it  you,  child  ?  " 

"If  it  so  please  you.  Sir." 

"Zauns  —  Where's  my  snuff-box?  —  oh,  here  it  is.  Well, 
Sir,  you  shall  have  the  whole  thing,  from  beginning  to  end. 
Sedley  and  I  were  one  day  conversing  together  about  women. 
Sid  was  a  very  deep  fellow  in  that  game:  no  passion  you 
know;  no  love  on  his  own  side;  nothing  of  the  sort;  all  done 
by  rule  and  compass ;  knew  women  as  well  as  dice,  and  calcu- 
lated the  exact  moment  when  his  snares  would  catch  them, 
according  to  the  principles  of  geometry.  D — d  clever  fellow, 
faith;    but  a  confounded  rascal:    but  let  it  go  no  further; 


DEVEREUX.  67 

mum's  the  word!  must  not  slander  the  dead;  and  'tis  only 
my  suspicion,  you  know,  after  all.  Poor  fellow:  I  don't  think 
he  was  such  a  rascal;  he  gave  a  beggar  an  angel  once, — well, 
boy,  have  a  pinch  ? —  Well,  so  I  said  to  Sir  Charles,  'I  think 
you  will  lose  the  widow,  after  all, —  'Gad  I  do.'  'Upon  what 
principle  of  science.  Sir  AVilliam  ? '  said  he.  'Why,  faith, 
man,  she  is  so  modest,  you  see,  and  has  such  a  pretty  way  of 
blushing.'  'Hark  ye,  friend  Devereux,'  said  Sir  Charles, 
smoothing  his  collar  and  mincing  his  words  musically,  as 
he  was  wont  to  do, —  'hark  ye,  friend  Devereux,  I  will  give 
you  the  whole  experience  of  my  life  in  one  maxim:  I  can 
answer  for  its  being  new,  and  I  think  it  is  profound;  and 
that  maxim  is — , '  no,  faith,  Morton  —  no,  I  can't  tell  it 
thee :  it  is  villanous,  and  then  it 's  so  desperately  against 
all  the  sex." 

"  My  dear  uncle,  don't  tantalize  me  so :  pray  tell  it  me ;  it 
shall  be  a  secret." 

"No,  boy,  no:  it  will  corrupt  thee;  besides,  it  will  do  poor 
Sid's  memory  no  good.  But,  'sdeath,  it  was  a  most  wonder- 
fully shrewd  saying, —  i' faith,  it  was.  But,  zounds,  Morton, 
I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  I  have  had  a  letter  from  the  Abbe 
to-day." 

"Ha!  and  when  does  he  return  ?" 

"To-morrow,  God  willing!  "  said  the  knight,  with  a  sigh. 

"  So  soon,  or  rather  after  so  long  an  absence !  Well,  I  am 
glad  of  it.     I  wish  much  to  see  him  before  I  leave  you." 

"Indeed!"  quoth  my  uncle ;  "you  have  an  advantage  over 
me,  then!  But,  ods  fish,  Morton,  how  is  it  that  you  grew  so 
friendly  with  the  priest  before  his  departure  ?  He  used  to 
speak  very  suspiciously  of  thee  formerly;  and,  when  I  last 
saw  him,  he  lauded  thee  to  the  skies." 

"Why,  the  clergy  of  his  faith  have  a  habit  of  defending 
the  strong  and  crushing  the  weak,  I  believe;  that 's  all.  He 
once  thought  I  was  dull  enough  to  damn  my  fortune,  and 
then  he  had  some  strange  doubts  for  my  soul;  now  he  thinks 
me  wise  enough  to  become  prosperous,  and  it  is  astonishing 
what  a  respect  he  has  conceived  for  my  principles." 

''Ha!  ha!  ha!  —  you  have  a  spice  of  your  uncle's  humour 


68  DEVEREUX. 

in  you;  and,  'Gad,  you  have  no  small  knowledge  of  tlie 
world,   considering  you  have  seen  so  little  of  it." 

A  hit  at  the  popish  clergy  was,  in  my  good  uncle's  eyes, 
the  exact  acme  of  wit  and  wisdom.  We  are  always  clever 
with  those  who  imagine  we  think  as  they  do.  To  be  shallow 
you  must  differ  from  people :  to  be  profound  you  must  agree 
with  them.  "Why,  Sir,"  answered  the  sage  nephew,  "you 
forget  that  I  have  seen  more  of  the  world  than  many  of  twice 
my  age.  Your  house  has  been  full  of  company  ever  since  I 
have  been  in  it,  and  you  set  me  to  making  observations  on 
what  I  saw  before  I  was  thirteen.  And  then,  too,  if  one  is 
reading  books  about  real  life,  at  the  very  time  one  is  mixing 
in  it,  it  is  astonishing  how  naturally  one  remarks  and  how 
well  one  remembers." 

"Especially  if  one  has  a  genius  for  it, — eh,  boy?  And 
then  too,  you  have  read  my  play;  turned  Horace's  Satires 
into  a  lampoon  upon  the  boys  at  school;  been  regularly  to 
assizes  during  the  vacation;  attended  the  county  balls,  and 
been  a  most  premature  male  coquette  with  the  ladies.  Ods 
fish,  boy!  it  is  quite  curious  to  see  how  the  young  sparks  of 
the  present  day  get  on  with  their  lovemaking." 

"Especially  if  one  has  a  genius  for  it, —  eh,  sir  ?"  said  I. 

"Besides,  too,"  said  my  uncle,  ironically,  "you  have  had 
the  Abbe's  instructions." 

"Ay,  and  if  the  priests  would  communicate  to  their  pupils 
their  experience  in  frailty,  as  well  as  in  virtue,  how  wise  they 
would  make  us !  " 

"Ods  fish!  Morton,  you  are  quite  oracular.  How  got  you 
that  fancy  of  priests  ?  —  by  observation  in  life  already  ?" 

"  No,  Uncle :  by  observation  in  plays,  which  you  tell  me  are 
the  mirrors  of  life;  you  remember  what  Lee  says, — 

"  "T  is  thought 
That  earth  is  more  ohliged  to  priests  for  bodies 
Than  Heaven  for  souls.' " 

And  my  uncle  laughed,  and  called  me  a  smart  fellow. 


DEVEREUX,  69 

CHAPTER  XII. 

THE   ABB]e's    RETURX. —  A   SWORD,    AND    A   SOLILOQUY. 

The  next  evening,  -when  I  was  sitting  alone  in  my  room, 
the  Abbe  ^Nlontreuil  suddenly  entered.  "Ah,  is  it  you  ?  wel- 
come !  "  cried  I.  The  priest  held  out  his  arms,  and  embraced 
me  in  the  most  paternal  manner. 

"It  is  your  friend,"  said  he,  "returned  at  last  to  bless  and 
congratulate  you.  Behold  my  success  in  your  service,"  and 
the  Abbe  produced  a  long  leather  case  richly  inlaid  with  gold. 

"Faith,  Abbe,"  said  I,  "am  I  to  understand  that  this  is  a 
present  for  your  eldest  pupil  ? " 

"You  are,"  said  Montreuil,  opening  the  case,  and  produ- 
cing a  sword.  The  light  fell  upon  the  hilt,  and  I  drew  back, 
dazzled  with  its  lustre ;  it  was  covered  with  stones,  apparently 
of  the  most  costly  value.  Attached  to  the  hilt  was  a  label  of 
purple  velvet,  on  which,  in  letters  of  gold,  was  inscribed, 
"To  the  son  of  Marshal  Devereux,  the  soldier  of  France,  and 
the  friend  of  Louis  XIV." 

Before  I  recovered  my  surprise  at  this  sight,  the  Abbe 
said:  "It  was  from  the  King's  own  hand  that  I  received  this 
sword,  and  I  ha.ve  authority  to  inform  you  that  if  ever  you 
wield  it  in  the  service  of  France  it  will  be  accompanied  by  a 
post  worthy  of  your  name." 

"The  service  of  France!"  I  repeated;  "why,  at  present 
that  is  the  service  of  an  enemy." 

"An  enemy  only  to  a  jxirt  of  England!"  said  the  Abbe, 
emphatically;  "perhaps  I  have  overtures  to  you  from  other 
monarchs,  and  the  friendship  of  the  court  of  France  may  be 
synonymous  with  the  friendship  of  the  true  sovereign  of 
England." 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  purport  of  this  speech,  and 
even  in  the  midst  of  my  gratified  vanity  I  drew  back  alarmed. 

The  Abbe  noted  the  changed  expression  of  my  countenance, 
and  artfully  turned  the  subject  to  comments  on  the  sword,  on 


70  DEVEREUX. 

which  I  still  gazed  with  a  lover's  ardour.  Thence  he  veered 
to  a  description  of  the  grace  and  greatness  of  the  royal  donor : 
he  dwelt  at  length  upon  the  flattering  terms  in  which  Louis 
had  spoken  of  my  father,  and  had  inquired  concerning  myself; 
he  enumerated  all  the  hopes  that  the  illustrious  house  into 
which  my  father  had  first  married  expressed  for  a  speedy 
introduction  to  his  son ;  he  lingered  with  an  eloquence  more 
savouring  of  the  court  than  of  the  cloister  on  the  dazzling  cir- 
cle which  surrounded  the  French  throne ;  and  Avhen  my  van- 
ity, my  curiosity,  my  love  of  pleasure,  my  ambition,  all  that 
are  most  susceptible  in  young  minds,  were  fully  aroused,  he 
suddenly  ceased,  and  wished  me  a  good  night. 

"Stay,"  said  I;  and  looking  at  him  more  attentively  than  I 
had  hitherto  done,  I  perceived  a  change  in  his  external  ap- 
pearance which  somewhat  startled  and  surprised  me.  Mon- 
treuil  had  always  hitherto  been  remarkably  plain  in  his  dress ; 
but  he  was  now  richly  attired,  and  by  his  side  hung  a  rapier, 
which  had  never  adorned  it  before.  Something  in  his  aspect 
seemed  to  suit  the  alteration  in  his  garb :  and  whether  it  was 
that  long  absence  had  effaced  enough  of  the  familiarity  of  his 
features  to  allow  me  to  be  more  alive  than  formerly  to  the 
real  impression  they  were  calculated  to  produce,  or  whether 
a  commune  with  kings  and  nobles  had  of  late  dignified  their 
old  ex]3ression,  as  power  was  said  to  have  clothed  the  soldier- 
mien  of  Cromwell  with  a  monarch's  bearing, —  I  do  not  affect 
to  decide;  but  I  thought  that,  in  his  high  brow  and  Eoman 
features,  the  compression  of  his  lip,  and  his  calm  but  haughty 
air,  there  was  a  nobleness,  which  I  acknowledged  for  the 
first  time.  "Stay,  my  father,"  said  I,  surveying  him,  "and 
tell  me,  if  there  be  no  irreverence  in  the  question,  whether 
brocade  and  a  sword  are  compatible  with  the  laws  of  the 
Order  of  Jesus  ?  " 

"Policy,  Morton,"  answered  Montreuil,  "often  dispenses 
with  custom;  and  the  declarations  of  the  Institute  provide, 
with  their  usual  wisdom,  for  worldly  and  temporary  occa- 
sions. Even  while  the  constitution  ordains  us  to  disc:^.rd 
habits  repugnant  to  our  professions  of  poverty,  the  follow- 
ing exception  is  made:    'Si   in  occurrenti   aliqua  occasione, 


DEVEREUX.  71 

vel  necessitate,  quis  vestibus  melioribus,  honestis  tamen, 
inilueretur. '  "  ^ 

'•  There  is  now,  then,  some  occasion  for  a  more  glittering 
display  than  ordinary  ?  "  said  I. 

"There  is,  my  pupil,"  answered  ]Montreuil;  "and  whenever 
you  embrace  the  offer  of  my  friendship  made  to  you  more 
than  two  years  ago, —  whenever,  too,  your  ambition  points  to  a 
lofty  and  sublime  career, —  whenever  to  make  and  unmake 
kings,  and  in  the  noblest  sphere  to  execute  the  will  of  God, 
indemnifies  you  for  a  sacrifice  of  petty  wishes  and  momentary 
passions, —  I  will  confide  to  you  schemes  worthy  of  your 
ancestors  and  yourself." 

With  this  the  priest  departed.  Left  to  myself,  I  revolved 
his  hints,  and  marvelled  at  the  power  he  seemed  to  possess. 
"Closeted  with  kings,"  said  I,  soliloquizing, —  "bearing  their 
presents  through  armed  men  and  military  espionage;  speak- 
ing of  empires  and  their  overthrow  as  of  ordinary  objects  of 
ambition;  and  he  himself  a  low-born  and  undignified  priest, 
of  a  poor  though  a  wise  order, —  well,  there  is  more  in  this 
than  I  can  fathom :  but  I  will  hesitate  before  I  embark  in  his 
dangerous  and  concealed  intrigues;  above  all,  I  will  look  well 
ere  I  hazard  my  safe  heritage  of  these  broad  lands  in  the 
service  of  that  House  which  is  reported  to  be  ungrateful,  and 
which  is  certainly  exiled." 

After  this  prudent  and  notable  resolution,  I  took  up  the 
sword,  re-examined  it,  kissed  the  hilt  once  and  the  blade 
twice,  put  it  under  my  pillow,  sent  for  ray  valet,  undressed, 
went  to  bed;  fell  asleep,  and  dreamed  that  I  was  teaching  the 
Marechal  de  Villars  the  thrust  en  seconde. 

But  Fate,  that  arch-gossip,  who,  like  her  prototypes  on 
earth,  settles  all  our  affairs  for  us  without  our  knowledge  of 
the  matter,  had  decreed  that  my  friendship  with  the  Abbe 
Montreuil  should  be  of  very  short  continuance,  and  that  my 
adventures  on  earth  should  flow  through  a  different  channel 
than,  in  all  probability,  they  would  have  done  vmder  his 
spiritual  direction.  ^ 

1  "  But  should  there  chance  any  occasion  or  necessity,  one  may  wear  better 
tbou";h  still  decorous  Erarmeuts." 


72  DEVEREUX. 


CHAPTEE  XIII. 

A   MYSTERIOUS    LETTER. A    DUEL. THE   DEPARTURE    OF    ONE 

OF    THE    FAMILY. 

The  next  morning  I  communicated  to  tlie  Abbe  my  inten- 
tion of  proceeding  to  London.  He  received  it  with  favour. 
"I  myself,"  said  he,  "shall  soon  meet  you  there:  my  ofBce  in 
your  family  has  expired;  and  your  mother,  after  so  long  an 
absence,  will  perhaps  readily  dispense  with  my  spiritual  ad- 
vice to  her.  But  time  presses :  since  you  depart  so  soon,  give 
me  an  audience  to-night  in  your  apartment.  Perhaps  our 
conversation  may  be  of  moment." 

I  agreed ;  the  hour  was  fixed,  and  I  left  the  Abb^  to  join 
my  uncle  and  his  guests.  While  I  was  employing  among 
them  my  time  and  genius  with  equal  dignity  and  profit,  one 
of  the  servants  informed  me  that  a  man  at  the  gate  wished  to 
see  me  —  and  alone. 

Somewhat  surprised,  I  followed  the  servant  out  of  the  room 
into  the  great  hall,  and  desired  him  to  bid  the  stranger  attend 
me  there.  In  a  few  minutes,  a  small,  dark  man,  dressed 
between  gentility  and  meanness,  made  his  appearance.  He 
greeted  me  with  great  respect,  and  presented  a  letter,  which, 
he  said,  he  was  charged  to  deliver  into  my  own  hands, 
"with,"  he  added  in  alow  tone,  "a  special  desire  that  none 
should,  till  I  had  carefully  read  it,  be  made  acquainted  with 
its  contents."  I  was  not  a  little  startled  by  this  request; 
and,  withdrawing  to  one  of  the  windows,  broke  the  seal.  A 
letter,  enclosed  in  the  envelope,  in  the  Abbe's  own  handwrit- 
ing, was  the  first  thing  that  met  my  eyes.  At  that  instant 
the  Abbe  himself  rushed  into  the  hall.  He  cast  one  hasty 
look  at  the  messenger,  whose  countenance  evinced  something 
of  surprise  and  consternation  at  beholding  him;  and,  hasten- 
ing up ,  to  me,  grasped  my  hand  vehemently,  and,  while  his 
eye  dwelt  upon  the  letter  I  held,  cried,  "  Do  not  read  it  —  not 


DEVEREUX.  73 

a  word  —  not  a  -svord :  there  is  poison  in  it !  "     And  so  saying, 
he  snatched  desperately  at  the  letter.      I  detained  it  from 
him  with  one  hand,  and  pushing  him  aside  with  the  other,, 
said,  — 

"  Pardon  me,  "Father,  directly  I  have  read  it  you  shall  have 
that  pleasure, —  not  till  then!"  and,  as  I  said  this,  my  eye 
falling  upon  the  letter  discovered  my  own  name  written  in 
two  places.  My  suspicions  were  aroused.  I  raised  my  eyes 
to  the  spot  where  the  messenger  had  stood,  with  the  view  of 
addressing  some  question  to  him  respecting  his  employer, 
when,  to  my  surprise,  I  perceived  he  was  already  gone ;  I  had 
no  time,  however,  to  follow  him. 

"Boy,"  said  the  Abbe,  gasping  for  breath,  and  still  seizing 
me  with  his  lean,  bony  hand, —  "boy,  give  me  that  letter  in- 
stantly;  I  charge  you  not  to  disobey  me." 

"You  forget  yourself.  Sir,"  said  I,  endeavouring  to  shake 
him  off,  "you  forget  yourself:  there  is  no  longer  between  us 
the  distinction  of  pupil  and  teacher;  and  if  you  have  not  yet 
learned  the  respect  due  to  my  station,  suffer  me  to  tell  you 
that  it  is  time  you  should." 

"Give  me  that  letter,  I  beseech  you,"  said  Montreuil, 
changing  his  voice  from  anger  to  supplication;  "I  ask  your 
pardon  for  my  violence :  the  letter  does  not  concern  you  but 
me ;  there  is  a  secret  in  those  lines  which  you  see  are  in  my 
handwriting  that  implicates  my  personal  safety.  Give  it  me, 
my  dear,  dear  son:  your  own  honour,  if  not  your  affection 
for  me,  demands  that  you  should." 

I  was  staggered.  His  Aaolence  had  confirmed  my  suspi- 
cions, but  his  gentleness  weakened  them.  "Besides,"  thought 
I,  "  the  handwriting  is  his ;  and  even  if  my  life  depended 
upon  reading  the  letter  of  another,  I  do  not  think  my  honour 
would  suffer  me  to  do  so  against  his  consent."  A  thought 
struck  me, — 

"  Will  you  swear, "  said  I,  "  that  this  letter  does  not  concern 
me?" 

"Solemnly,"  answered  the  Abbe,  raising  his  eyes. 

"  Will  you  swear  that  I  am  not  even  mentioned  in  it  ?  " 

"Upon  peril  of  my  soul,  I  will." 


74  DEVEREUX. 

"  Liar !  traitor !  perjured  blasphemer !  "  cried  I,  in  an  inex- 
pressible rage,  "  look  here,  and  here ! "  and  I  pointed  out  to 
the  priest  various  lines  in  which  my  name  legibly  and  fre- 
quently occurred.  A  change  came  over  Montreuil's  face:  he 
released  my  arm  and  staggered  back  against  the  wainscot; 
but  recovering  his  composure  instantaneously,  he  said,  "I 
forgot,  my  son  —  I  forgot  —  your  name  is  mentioned,  it  is 
true,  but  with  honourable  eulogy,  that  is  all." 

"Bravo,  honest  Father!"  cried  I,  losing  my  fury  in  admir- 
ing surprise  at  his  address, —  "bravo!  However,  if  that  be 
all,  you  can  have  no  objection  to  allow  me  to  read  the  lines  in 
which  my  name  occurs;  your  benevolence  cannot  refuse  me 
such  a  gratification  as  the  sight  of  your  written  panegyric!  " 

"Count  Devereux,"  said  the  Abbe,  sternly,  while  his  dark 
face  worked  with  suppressed  passion,  "this  is  trifling  with 
me,  and  I  warn  you  not  to  push  my  patience  too  far.  I  will 
have  that  letter,  or  — "  he  ceased  abruptly,  and  touched  the 
hilt  of  his  sword. 

"  Dare  you  threaten  me  ?  "  I  said,  and  the  natural  fierceness 
of  my  own  disposition,  deepened  by  vague  and  strong  suspi- 
cions of  some  treachery  designed  against  me,  spoke  in  the 
tones  of  my  voice. 

"Dare  I?"  repeated  Montreuil,  sinking  and  sharpening  his 
voice  into  a  sort  of  inward  screech.  "  Dare  I !  —  ay,  were 
your  whole  tribe  arrayed  against  me.  Give  me  the  letter,  or 
you  will  find  me  now  and  forever  your  most  deadly  foe; 
deadly  —  ay  —  deadly,  deadly !  "  and  he  shook  his  clenched 
hand  at  me,  with  an  expression  of  countenance  so  malignant 
and  menacing  that  I  drew  back  involuntarily^  and  laid  my 
hand  on  my  sword. 

The  action  seemed  to  give  Montreuil  a  signal  for  which  he 
had  hitherto  waited.  "Draw  then,"  he  said  through  his 
teeth,    and  unsheathed  his  rapier. 

Though  surprised  at  his  determination,  I  was  not  backward 
in  meeting  it.  Thrusting  the  letter  in  my  bosom,  I  drew  my 
sword  in  time  to  parry  a  rapid  and  fierce  thrust.  I  had  ex- 
pected easily  to  master  Montreuil,  for  I  had  some  skill  at  my 
weapon:  I  was  deceived;  I  found  him  far  more  adroit  than 


DEVEREUX.  75 

myself  in  the  art  of  offence ;  and  perhaps  it  would  have  fared 
ill  for  the  hero  of  this  narrative  had  Montreuil  deemed  it 
wise  to  direct  against  my  life  all  the  science  he  possessed. 
But  the  moment  our  swords  crossed,  the  constitutional  cool- 
ness of  the  man,  which  rage  or  fear  had  for  a  brief  time  ban- 
ished, returned  at  once,  and  he  probably  saw  that  it  would  be 
as  dangerous  to  him  to  take  away  the  life  of  his  pupil  as  to 
forfeit  the  paper  for  which  he  fought.  He,  therefore,  ap- 
peared to  bend  all  his  efforts  towards  disarming  me.  Whether 
or  not  he  would  have  effected  this  it  is  hard  to  say,  for  my 
blood  was  up,  and  any  neglect  of  my  antagonist,  in  attaining 
an  object  very  dangerous,  when  engaged  with  a  skilful  and 
quick  swordsman,  might  have  sent  him  to  the  place  from 
which  the  prayers  of  his  brethren  have  (we  are  bound  to  be- 
lieve) released  so  many  thousands  of  souls.  But,  meanwhile, 
the  servants,  who  at  lirst  thought  the  clashing  of  swords  was 
the  wanton  sport  of  some  young  gallants  as  yet  new  to  the 
honour  of  wearing  them,  grew  alarmed  by  the  continuance  of 
the  sound,  and  flocked  hurriedly  to  the  place  of  contest.  At 
their  intrusion  we  mutually  drew  back.  Eecovering  my  pres- 
ence of  mind  (it  was  a  possession  I  very  easily  lost  at  that 
time),  I  saw  the  unseemliness  of  fighting  with  my  preceptor, 
and  a  priest.  I  therefore  burst,  though  awkwardly  enough, 
into  a  laugh,  and,  affecting  to  treat  the  affair  as  a  friendly 
trial  of  skill  between  the  Abbe  and  myself,  resheathed  my 
sword  and  dismissed  the  intruders,  who,  evidently  disbelieving 
my  version  of  the  story,  retreated  slowly,  and  exchanging 
looks.  Montreuil,  who  had  scarcely  seconded  my  attempt  to 
gloss  over  our  rencontre,  now  approached  me, 

"Count,"  he  said,  with  a  collected  and  cool  voice,  "suffer 
me  to  request  you  to  exchange  three  words  with  me  in  a  spot 
less  liable  than  this  to  interruption." 

"  Follow  me  then !  "  said  I ;  and  I  led  the  way  to  a  part  of 
the  grounds  which  lay  remote  and  sequestered  from  intrusion. 
I  then  turned  round,  and  perceived  that  the  Abbe  had  left 
his  sword  behind.  "  How  is  this  ? "  I  said,  pointing  to 
his  unarmed  side,  "have  you  not  come  hither  to  renew  our 
engagement  ?  " 


76  DEYEREUX. 

"  No ! "  answered  Montreuil,  "  I  repent  me  of  my  sudden 
haste,  and  I  have  resolved  to  deny  myself  all  further  possi- 
bility of  unseemly  warfare.  That  letter,  young  man,  I  still 
demand  from  you;  I  demanded  it  from  your  own  sense  of 
honour  and  of  right:  it  was  written  by  me;  it  was  not  in- 
tended for  your  eye;  it  contains  secrets  implicating  the  lives 
of  others  besides  myself;    now,   read  it  if  you  will." 

"  You  are  right,  Sir, "  said  I,  after  a  short  pause ;  "  there  is 
the  letter;  never  shall  it  be  said  of  Morton  Devereux  that  he 
hazarded  his  honour  to  secure  his  safety.  But  the  tie  between 
us  is  broken  now  and  forever ! " 

So  saying,  I  flung  down  the  debated  epistle,  and  strode 
away.  I  re-entered  the  great  hall.  I  saw  by  one  of  the  win- 
dows a  sheet  of  paper ;  I  picked  it  up,  and  perceived  that  it 
was  the  envelope  in  which  the  letter  had  been  enclosed.  It 
contained  only  these  lines,  addressed  me  in  French :  — 

A  friend  of  the  late  Marshal  Devereux  encloses  to  his  son  a  letter,  the 
contents  of  which  it  is  essential  for  his  safety  that  he  should  know. 

C.  D.  B. 

"Umph!"  said  I,  "a  very  satisfactory  intimation,  consid- 
ering that  the  son  of  the  late  Marshal  Devereux  is  so  very 
well  assured  that  he  shall  not  know  one  line  of  the  contents 
of  the  said  letter.  But  let  me  see  after  this  messenger!  "  and 
I  immediately  hastened  to  institute  inquiry  respecting  him. 
I  found  that  he  was  already  gone ;  on  leaving  the  hall  he  had 
remounted  his  horse  and  taken  his  departure.  One  servant, 
however,  had  seen  him,  as  he  passed  the  front  court,  address 
a  few  words  to  my  valet,  Desmarais,  who  happened  to  be 
loitering  there.     I  summoned  Desmarais  and  questioned  him. 

"The  dirty  fellow,"  said  the  Frenchman,  pointing  to  his 
spattered  stockings  with  a  lachrymose  air,  "  splashed  me,  by 
a  prance  of  his  horse,  from  head  to  foot,  and  while  I  was 
screaming  for  very  anguish,  he  stopped  and  said,  'Tell  the 
Count  Devereux  that  I  was  unable  to  tarry,  but  that  the 
letter  requires  no  answer. ' " 

I  consoled  Desmarais  for  his  misfortune,  and  hastened  to 
my  uncle  with  a  determination  to  reveal  to  him  all  that  had 


DEVEREUX.  77 

occurred.  Sir  William  was  in  his  dressing-room,  and  liis 
gentleman  was  very  busy  in  adorning  his  wig.  I  entreated 
him  to  dismiss  the  coiffeur,  and  then,  without  much  prelim- 
inary detail,  acquainted  him  with  all  that  had  passed  between 
the  Abbe  and  myself. 

The  knight  seemed  startled  when  I  came  to  the  story  of  the 
sword.  '"Gad,  Sir  Count,  what  have  you  been  doing  ?"  said 
he ;  "  know  you  not  that  this  may  be  a  very  ticklish  matter  ? 
The  King  of  France  is  a  very  great  man,  to  be  sure, —  a  very 
great  man,  —  and  a  very  fine  gentleman;  but  you  will  please 
to  remember  that  we  are  at  war  with  his  Majesty,  and  I  can- 
not guess  how  far  the  accepting  such  presents  may  be  held 
treasonable." 

And  Sir  William  shook  his  head  with  a  mournful  signifi- 
cance. "Ah,"  cried  he,  at  last  (when  I  had  concluded  my 
whole  story),  with  a  complacent  look,  "I  have  not  lived  at 
court,  and  studied  human  nature,  for  nothing:  and  I  will 
wager  my  best  full-bottom  to  a  night-cap  that  the  crafty  old 
fox  is  as  much  a  Jacobite  as  he  is  a  rogue !  The  letter  would 
have  proved  it,  Sir ;  it  would  have  proved  it !  " 

"  But  what  shall  be  done  now  ?  "  said  I ;  "  will  you  suffer 
him  to  remain  any  longer  in  the  house  ? " 

"Why,"  replied  the  knight,  suddenly  recollecting  his  rev- 
erence to  the  fair  sex,  "he  is  your  mother's  guest,  not  mine; 
we  must  refer  the  matter  to  her.  But  zauns,  Sir,  with  all 
deference  to  her  ladyship,  we  cannot  suffer  our  house  to  be  a 
conspiracy-hatch  as  well  as  a  popish  chapel ;  and  to  attempt 
your  life  too  —  the  devil!  Ods  fish,  boy,  I  will  go  to  the 
countess  myself,  if  you  will  just  let  NichoUs  finish  my  wig, 
—  never  attend  the  ladies  en  deshabille, —  always,  with  them, 
take  care  of  your  person  most,  when  you  most  want  to  dis- 
play your  mind;  "  and  my  uncle  ringing  a  little  silver  bell  on 
his  dressing-table,  the  sound  immediately  brought  Nicholls 
to  his  toilet. 

Trusting  the  cause  to  the  zeal  of  my  uncle,  whose  hatred  to 
the  ecclesiastic  would,  I  knew,  be  an  efficacious  adjunct  to 
his  diplomatic  address,  and  not  unwilling  to  avoid  being  my- 
self the  person  to  acquaint  my  mother  with  the  suspected  de- 


78  DEVEREUX. 

linquency  of  her  favourite,  I  hastened  from  the  knight's 
apartment  in  search  of  Aubrey.  He  was  not  in  the  house. 
His  attendants  (for  my  uncle,  with  old-fashioned  grandeur  of 
respect,  suitable  to  his  great  wealth  and  aristocratic  temper, 
allotted  to  each  of  us  a  separate  suite  of  servants  as  well  as 
of  apartments)  believed  he  was  in  the  park.  Thither  I  re- 
paired, and  found  him,  at  length,  seated  by  an  old  tree,  with 
a  large  book  of  a  religious  cast  before  him,  on  which  his  eyes 
were  intently  bent. 

"I  rejoice  to  have  found  thee,  my  gentle  brother,"  said  I, 
throwing  myself  on  the  green  turf  by  his  side;  "in  truth  you 
have  chosen  a  fitting  and  fair  place  for  study." 

"I  have  chosen,"  said  Aubrey,  "a  place  meet  for  the  pe- 
culiar study  I  am  engrossed  in;  for  where  can  we  better  read 
of  the  power  and  benevolence  of  God  than  among  the  living 
testimonies  of  both  ?  Beautiful  —  how  very  beautiful !  —  is 
this  happy  world ;  but  I  fear, "  added  Aubrey,  and  the  glow  of 
his  countenance  died  away, —  "I  fear  that  we  enjoy  it  too 
much." 

"We  hold  different  interpretations  of  our  creed  then,"  said 
I,  "for  I  esteem  enjoyment  the  best  proof  of  gratitude;  nor 
do  I  think  we  can  pay  a  more  acceptable  duty  to  the  Father 
of  all  Goodness  than  by  showing  ourselves  sensible  of  the 
favours  He  bestows  upon  us." 

Aubrey  shook  his  head  gently,  but  replied  not. 

"Yes,"  resumed  I,  after  a  pause, —  "yes,  it  is  indeed  a  glo- 
rious and  fair  world  which  we  have  for  our  inheritance.  Look 
how  the  sunlight  sleeps  yonder  upon  fields  covered  with  golden 
corn;  and  seems,  like  the  divine  benevolence  of  which  you 
spoke,  to  smile  upon  the  luxuriance  which  its  power  created. 
This  carpet  at  our  feet,  covered  with  flowers  that  breathe, 
sweet  as  good  deeds,  to  Heaven ;  the  stream  that  breaks  through 
that  distant  copse,  laughing  in  the  light  of  noon,  and  sending 
its  voice  through  the  hill  and  woodland,  like  a  messenger  of 
glad  tidings;  the  green  boughs  over  our  head,  vocal  with  a 
thousand  songs,  all  inspirations  of  a  joy  too  exquisite  for  si- 
lence ;  the  very  leaves,  which  seem  to  dance  and  quiver  with 
delight, — think  you,  Aubrey,  that  these  are  so  sullen  as  not 


DEVEREUX.  79 

to  return  thanks  for  the  happiness  they  imbibe  with  being : 
what  are  those  thanks  but  the  incense  of  their  joy  ?  The 
flowers  send  it  up  to  heaven  in  fragrance;  the  air  and  the 
wave,  in  music.  Shall  the  heart  of  man  be  the  only  part  of 
His  creation  that  shall  dishonour  His  worship  with  lamenta- 
tion and  gloom?  When  the  ius] tired  writers  call  upon  us  to 
praise  our  Creator,  do  they  not  say  to  us, —  '^q  joyful  in  your 
God? '  " 

"  How  can  we  be  joyful  with  the  Judgment-Day  ever  before 
us?"  said  Aubrey;  "how  can  we  be  joyful"  (and  here  a  dark 
shade  crossed  his  countsnance,  and  his  lip  trembled  with 
emotion)  "  while  the  deadly  passions  of  this  world  plead  and 
rankle  at  the  heart  ?  Oh,  none  but  they  who  have  knov.ai  the 
full  blessedness  of  a  commune  with  Heaven  can  dream  of  the 
whole  anguish  and  agony  of  the  conscience,  when  it  feels  it- 
self sullied  by  the  mire  and  crushed  by  the  load  of  earth!" 
Aubrey  paused,  and  his  words,  his  tone,  his  look,  made  upon 
me  a  powerful  impression.  I  was  about  to  answer,  when, 
interrupting  me,  he  said,  "  Let  us  talk  not  of  these  matters ; 
speak  to  me  on  more  worldly  topics." 

"I  sought  you,"  said  I,  "that  I  might  do  so,"  and  I  pro- 
ceeded to  detail  to  Aubrej'  as  much  of  my  private  intercourse 
with  the  Abbe  as  I  deemed  necessary  in  order  to  warn  him 
from  too  close  a  confidence  in  the  wily  ecclesiastic.  Aubrey 
listened  to  me  with  earnest  attention;  the  affair  of  the  letter; 
the  gross  falsehood  of  the  priest  in  denying  the  mention  of 
my  name,  in  his  epistle,  evidently  dismayed  him.  "But," 
said  he,  after  a  long  silence, —  "but  it  is  not  for  us,  Morton, 
— weak,  ignorant,  inexperienced  as  we  are, — to  judge  prema- 
turely of  our  spiritual  pastors.  To  them  also  is  given  a  far 
greater  license  of  conduct  than  to  us,  and  ways  enveloped  in 
what  to  our  eyes  are  mystery  and  shade;  nay,  I  know  not 
whether  it  be  much  less  impious  to  question  the  paths  of 
God's  chosen  than  to  scrutinize  those  of  the  Deity  Himself." 

"  Aubrey,  Aubrey,  this  is  childish ! "  said  I,  somewhat 
moved  to  anger.  "  IVIystery  is  always  the  trick  of  imposture : 
God's  chosen  should  be  distinguished  from  their  flock  only 
by  superior  virtue,  and  not  by  a  superior  privilege  in  deceit." 


80  DEVEREUX. 

"But,"  said  Aubrey,  pointing  to  a  passage  in  the  book  be- 
fore him,  "  see  what  a  preacher  of  the  word  has  said ! "  and 
Aubrey  recited  one  of  the  most  dangerous  maxims  in  priest- 
craft, as  reverently  as  if  he  were  quoting  from  the  Scripture 
itself.  "  '  The  nakedness  of  truth  should  never  be  too  openly 
exposed  to  the  eyes  of  the  vulgar.  It  was  wisely  feigned  by 
the  ancients  that  Truth  did  lie  concealed  in  a  well ! '  " 

"Yes,"  said  I,  with  enthusiasm,  "but  that  well  is  like  the 
holy  stream  at  Dodona,  which  has  the  gift  of  enlightening 
those  who  seek  it,  and  the  power  of  illumining  every  torch 
which  touches  the  surface  of  its  water !  " 

Whatever  answer  Aubrey  might  have  made  was  interrupted 
by  my  uncle,  who  appeared  approaching  towards  us  with  un- 
usual satisfaction  depicted  on  his  comely  countenance. 

"Well,  boys,  well,"  said  he,  when  he  came  within  hearing, 
"  a  holy  day  for  you !  Ods  fish, — and  a  holier  day  than  my  old 
house  has  known  since  its  former  proprietor,  Sir  Hugo,  of 
valorous  memory,  demolished  the  nunnery,  of  which  some 
remains  yet  stand  on  yonder  eminence.  Morton,  my  man  of 
might,  the  thing  is  done;  the  court  is  purified;  the  wicked 
one  is  departed.  Look  here,  and  be  as  happy  as  I  am  at  our 
release;  "  and  he  threw  me  a  note  in  Montreuil's  writing:  — 


TO   SIE  WILLIAM  DEVEREUX,  KT. 

My  Honoured  Friend,  —  In  consequence  of  a  dispute  between 
your  eldest  nephew,  Count  Morton  Devereux,  and  myself,  in  which  he 
desired  me  to  remember,  not  only  that  our  former  relationship  of  tutor 
and  pupil  was  at  an  end,  but  that  friendship  for  his  person  was  incom- 
patible with  the  respect  due  to  his  superior  station,  I  can  neither  so  far 
degrade  the  dignity  of  letters,  nor,  above  all,  so  meanly  debase  the 
sanctity  of  my  divine  profession,  as  any  longer  to  remain  beneath  your 
hospitable  roof,  —  a  guest  not  only  unwelcome  to,  but  insulted  by,  your 
relation  and  apparent  heir.  Suffer  me  to  offer  you  my  gratitude  for  the 
favours  you  have  hitherto  bestowed  on  me,  and  to  bid  you  farewell  for- 
ever. 

I  have  the  honour  to  be, 

With  the  most  profound  respect,  etc., 

Julian  Montreuil. 


DEVEREUX.  81 

"Well,  sir,  what  say  you?"  cried  my  uncle,  stamping  his 
cane  firmly  on  the  ground,  when  I  had  finished  reading  the 
letter,   and  had  transmitted  it  to  Aubrey. 

"  That  the  good  Abbe  has  displayed  his  usual  skill  in  com- 
position. And  my  mother  ?  Is  she  imbued  with  our  opinion 
of  his  priestship  ?  " 

"Not  exactly,  I  fear.  However,  Heaven  bless  her,  she  is 
too  soft  to  say  'nay.'  But  those  Jesuits  are  so  smooth- 
tongued to  women.  'Gad,  they  threaten  damnation  with  such 
an  irresistible  air,  that  they  are  as  much  like  William  the 
Conqueror  as  Edward  the  Confessor.  Ha!  master  Aubrey, 
have  you  become  amorous  of  the  old  Jacobite,  that  you  sigh 
over  his  crabbed  writing,  as  if  it  were  a  billet-doux  ?  " 

"There  seems  a  great  deal  of  feeling  in  what  he  says,  Sir," 
said  Aubrey,  returning  the  letter  to  my  uncle. 

"  Feeling !  "  cried  the  knight ;  "  ay,  the  reverend  gentry  al- 
ways have  a  marvellously  tender  feeling  for  their  own  interest, 
—  eh,  Morton  ?  " 

"Eight,  dear  sir,"  said  I,  wishing  to  change  a  subject  which 
I  knew  might  hurt  Aubrey ;  "  but  should  we  not  join  yon  party 
of  dames  and  damsels  ?  I  see  they  are  about  to  make  a  water 
excursion." 

"  'Sdeath,  sir,  with  all  my  heart,"  cried  the  good-natured 
knight;  "I  love  to  see  the  dear  creatures  amuse  themselves; 
for,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Morton,"  said  he,  sinking  his  voice 
into  a  knowing  whisper,  "the  best  thing  to  keep  them  from 
playing  the  devil  is  to  encourage  them  in  playing  the  fool !  " 
and,  laughing  heartily  at  the  jest  he  had  purloined  from  one 
of  his  favourite  writers,  Sir  William  led  the  way  to  the 
water-party. 

6 


82  DEVEREUX. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

BEING   A   CHAPTER   OF   TRIFLES. 

The  Abbe  disappeared!  It  is  astonishing  how  well  eve^y^ 
body  bore  his  departure.  My  mother  scarcely  spoke  on  the 
subject;  but  along  the  irrefragable  smoothness  of  her  temper- 
ament all  things  glided  without  resistance  to  their  course,  or 
trace  where  they  had  been.  Gerald,  who,  occupied  solely  in 
rural  sports  or  rustic  loves,  seldom  mingled  in  the  festivities 
of  the  house,  was  equally  silent  on  the  subject.  Aubrey 
looked  grieved  for  a  day  or  two:  but  his  countenance  soon 
settled  into  its  customary  and  grave  softness;  and,  in  less 
than  a  week,  so  little  was  the  Abbe  spoken  of  or  missed  that 
you  would  scarcely  have  imagined  Julian  Montreuil  had  ever 
passed  the  threshold  of  our  gate.  The  oblivion  of  one  buried 
is  nothing  to  the  oblivion  of  one  disgraced. 

Meanwhile  I  pressed  for  my  departure;  and,  at  length,  the 
day  was  finally  fixed.  Ever  since  that  conversation  with 
Lady  Hasselton  which  has  been  set  before  the  reader,  that 
lad}''  had  lingered  and  lingered  —  though  the  house  was  grow- 
ing empty,  and  London,  in  all  seasons,  was,  according  to  her, 
better  than  the  country  in  any  —  until  the  Count  De verenx, 
with  that  amiable  modesty  which  so  especiall}'  characterized 
him,  began  to  suspect  that  the  Lady  Hasselton  lingered  on 
his  account.  This  emboldened  that  bashful  personage  to 
press  in  earnest  for  the  fourth  seat  in  the  beauty's  carriage, 
which  we  have  seen  in  the  conversation  before  mentioned  had 
been  previously  offered  to  him  in  jest.  After  a  great  affecta- 
tion of  horror  at  the  proposal,  the  Lady  Hasselton  yielded. 
She  had  always,  she  said,  been  dotingly  fond  of  children, 
and  it  was  certainly  very  shocking  to  send  such  a  chit  as  the 
little  Count  to  London  by  himself. 


DEVEREUX.  83 

Mj  uncle  was  charmed  with  the  arrangement.  The  beauty 
was  a  peculiar  favourite  of  his,  and,  in  fact,  he  was  some- 
times pleased  to  hint  that  he  had  private  reasons  for  love 
towards  her  mother's  daughter.  Of  the  truth  of  this  insinua- 
tion I  am,  however,  more  than  somewhat  suspicious,  and  be- 
lieve it  was  only  a  little  nise  of  the  good  knight,  in  order  to 
excuse  the  vent  of  those  kindly  affections  with  which  (while 
the  heartless  tone  of  the  company  his  youth  had  frequented 
made  him  ashamed  to  own  it)  his  breast  overflowed.  There 
was  in  Lady  Hasselton's  familiarity  —  her  ease  of  manner  — 
a  certain  good-nature  mingled  with  her  affectation,  and  a  gay- 
ety  of  spirit,  which  never  flagged, —  something  greatly  calcu- 
lated to  win  favour  with  a  man  of  my  uncle's  temper. 

An  old  gentleman  who  filled  in  her  family  the  office  of 
"the  chevalier"  in  a  French  one;  namely,  who  told  stories, 
not  too  long,  and  did  not  challenge  you  for  interrupting  them ; 
who  had  a  good  air,  and  unexceptionable  pedigree,  —  a  turn 
for  wit,  literature,  note-writing,  and  the  management  of  lap- 
dogs;  who  could  attend  Madame  to  auctions,  plays,  courts, 
and  the  puppet-show;  who  had  a  right  to  the  best  company, 
but  would,  on  a  signal,  give  up  his  seat  to  any  one  the  pretty 
capricieuse  whom  he  served  might  select  from  the  worst, —  in 
short  a  very  useful,  charming  personage,  "vastly"  liked  by 
all,  and  "prodigiously"  respected  by  none, — this  gentleman, 
I  say,  by  name  Mr.  Lovell,  had  attended  her  ladyship  in  her 
excursion  to  Devereux  Court.  Besides  him  there  came  also  a 
widow  lady,  'a  distant  relation,  with  one  eye  and  a  sharp 
tongue,  —  the  Lady  Needleham,  whom  the  beauty  carried 
about  with  her  as  a  sort  of  gouvernante  or  duenna.  These 
excellent  persons  made  my  com,pagnons  de  voyage,  and  filled 
the  remaining  complements  of  the  coach.  To  say  truth,  and 
to  say  nothing  of  my  tendresse  for  the  Lady  Hasselton,  I  was 
very  anxious  to  escape  the  ridicule  of  crawling  up  to  the  town 
like  a  green  beetle,  in  my  uncle's  verdant  chariot,  with  the 
four  Flanders  marcs  trained  not  to  exceed  two  miles  an  hour. 
And  my  Lady  Hasselton's  private  raileries  —  for  she  was 
really  well  bred,  and  made  no  jest  of  my  uncle's  antiquities  of 
taste,  in  his  presence,  at  least  —  had  considerably  heightened 


84  DEVEREUX. 

my  intuitive  dislike  to  that  mode  of  transporting  myself  to 
the  metropolis.  The  day  before  my  departure,  Gerald,  for 
the  first  time,   spoke  of  it. 

Glancing  towards  the  mirror,  which  gave  in  full  contrast 
the  magnificent  beauty  of  his  person,  and  the  smaller  pro- 
portions and  plainer  features  of  m}^  own,  he  said  with  a  sneer, 
"Your  appearance  must  create  a  wonderful  sensation  in  town." 

"No  doubt  of  it,"  said  I,  taking  his  words  literally,  and 
arraying  my  laced  cravat  with  the  air  of  o^  petit-maitre. 

"What  a  wit  the  Count  has!"  whispered  the  Duchess  of 
Lackland,  who  had  not  yet  given  up  all  hope  of  the  elder 
brother. 

"Wit!"  said  the  Lady  Hasselton;  "poor  child,  he  is  a 
perfect  simpleton!" 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  MOTHER  AXD  SON.  —  VIRTUE  SHOULD  BE  THE  SOVEREIGN 
OF  THE  FEELINGS,  NOT  THEIR  DESTROYER. 

I  TOOK  the  first  opportunity  to  escape  from  the  good  com- 
pany who  were  so  divided  in  opinion  as  to  my  mental  accom- 
plishments, and  repaired  to  my  mother;  for  whom,  despite  of 
her  evenness  of  disposition,  verging  towards  insensibility,  I 
felt  a  powerful  and  ineffaceable  affection.  Indeed,  if  purity 
of  life,  rectitude  of  intentions,  and  fervour  of  piety  can  win 
love,  none  ever  deserved  it  more  than  she.  It  was  a  pity 
that,  with  such  admirable  qualities,  she  had  not  more  dili- 
gently cultivated  her  affections.  The  seed  was  not  wanting; 
but  it  had  been  neglected.  Originally  intended  for  the  veil, 
she  had  been  taught,  early  in  life,  that  much  feeling  was  sy- 
nonymous with  much  sin ;  and  she  had  so  long  and  so  carefully 
repressed  in  her  heart  every  attempt  of  the  forbidden  fruit  to 
put  forth  a  single  blossom,  that  the  soil  seemed  at  last  to  have 
become  incapable  of  bearing  it.     If,   in  one  corner  of  this 


DEVEREUX.  85 

barren  but  sacred  spot,  some  green  and  tender  verdure  of 
affection  did  exist,  it  was,  with  a  partial  and  petty  reserve 
for  my  twin-brother,  kept  exclusive,  and  consecrated  to 
Aubrey.  His  congenial  habits  of  pious  silence  and  rigid  de- 
votion; his  softness  of  temper;  his  utter  freedom  from  all 
boyish  excesses,  joined  to  his  almost  angelic  beauty, — a  qual- 
ity which,  in  no  female  heart,  is  ever  without  its  value, — 
were  exactly  calculated  to  attract  her  sympathy,  and  work 
themselves  into  her  love.  Gerald  was  also  regular  in  his 
habits,  attentive  to  devotion,  and  had,  from  an  early  period, 
been  high  in  the  favour  of  her  spiritual  director.  Gerald, 
too,  if  he  had  not  the  delicate  and  dream -like  beauty  of 
Aubrey,  possessed  attractions  of  a  more  masculine  and  decided 
order;  and  for  Gerald,  therefore,  the  Countess  gave  the  little 
of  love  that  she  could  spare  from  Aubrey.  To  me  she  mani- 
fested the  most  utter  indifference.  My  difficult  and  fastidious 
temper;  my  sarcastic  turn  of  mind;  my  violent  and  headstrong 
passions;  my  daring,  reckless  and,  when  roused,  almost  fero- 
cious nature, —  all,  especially,  revolted  the  even  and  polished 
and  quiescent  character  of  my  maternal  parent.  The  little  ex- 
travagances of  my  childhood  seemed  to  her  pure  and  inexperi- 
enced mind  the  crimes  of  a  heart  naturally  distorted  and  evil ; 
my  jesting  vein,  which,  though  it  never,  even  in  the  wanton- 
ness of  youth,  attacked  the  substances  of  good,  seldom  respected 
its  semblances  and  its  forms,  she  considered  as  the  effusions  of 
malignity;  and  even  the  bursts  of  love,  kindness,  and  benev- 
olence, which  were  by  no  means  unfrequent  in  my  wild  and 
motley  character,  were  so  foreign  to  her  stillness  of  tempera- 
ment that  they  only  revolted  her  by  their  violence,  instead  of 
affecting  her  by  their  warmth. 

ISTor  did  she  like  me  the  better  for  the  mutual  understand- 
ing between  my  uncle  and  myself.  On  the  contrary,  shocked 
by  the  idle  and  gay  turn  of  the  knight's  conversation,  the 
frivolities  of  his  mind,  and  his  heretical  disregard  for  the 
forms  of  the  religious  sect  which  she  so  zealously  espoused, 
she  was  utterly  insensible  to  the  points  which  redeemed  and 
ennobled  his  sterling  and  generous  character ;  utterly  obtuse 
to  his  warmth  of  heart, —  his  overflowing  kindness  of  disposi- 


86  DEVEREUX. 

tion, —  his  charity, —  his  high  honour,  —  his  justice  of  princi- 
ple, that  nothing  save  benevolence  could,  warp, —  and  the 
shrewd,  penetrating  sense,  which,  though  often  clouded,  by 
foibles  and.  humorous  eccentricity,  still  made  the  stratum  of 
his  intellectual  composition.  Nevertheless,  despite  her  pre- 
possessions against  us  both,  there  was  in  her  temper  some- 
thing so  gentle,  meek,  and  unupbraiding,  that  even  the  sense 
of  injustice  lost  its  sting,  and  one  could  not  help  loving  the 
softness  of  her  character,  while  one  was  most  chilled  by  its 
frigidity.  Anger,  hope,  fear,  the  faintest  breath  or  sign  of 
passion,  never  seemed  to  stir  the  breezeless  languor  of  her 
feelings ;  and  quiet  was  so  inseparable  from  her  image  that  I 
have  almost  thought,  like  that  people  described  by  Herodotus, 
her  very  sleep  could  never  be  disturbed  by  dreams. 

Yes !  how  fondly,  how  tenderly  I  loved  her !  What  tears, 
secret  but  deep,  bitter  but  unreproaching,  have  I  retired  to 
shed,  when  I  caught  her  cold  and  unaffectionate  glance! 
How  (unnoticed  and  uncared  for)  have  I  watched  and  prayed 
and  wept  without  her  door  when  a  transitory  sickness  or 
suffering  detained  her  within ;  and  how,  when  stretched  my- 
self upon  the  feverish  bed  to  which  my  early  weakness  of 
frame  often  condemned  me, —  how  have  I  counted  the  mo- 
ments to  her  punctilious  and  brief  visit,  and  started  as  I 
caught  her  footstep,  and  felt  my  heart  leap  within  me  as  she 
approached!  and  then,  as  I  heard  her  cold  tone  and  looked 
upon  her  unmoved  face,  how  bitterly  have  I  turned  away  with 
all  that  repressed  and  crushed  affection  which  was  construed 
into  sullenness  or  disrespect!  0  mighty  and  enduring  force 
of  early  associations,  that  almost  seems,  in  its  unconquerable 
strength,  to  partake  of  an  innate  prepossession,  that  binds 
the  son  to  the  mother  who  concealed  him  in  her  womb  and 
purchased  life  for  him  with  the  travail  of  death !  —  fountain 
of  filial  love,  which  coldness  cannot  freeze,  nor  injustice  em- 
bitter, nor  pride  divert  into  fresh  channels,  nor  time,  and  the 
hot  suns  of  our  toiling  manhood,  exhaust, —  even  at  this  mo- 
ment, how  livingly  do  you  gush  upon  my  heart,  and  water 
with  your  divine  waves  the  memories  that  yet  flourish  amidst 
the  sterility  of  years ! 


DEYEREUX.  87 

I  approached  the  apartments  appropriated  to  my  mother :  I 
knocked  at  her  door;  one  of  her  women  admitted  me.  The 
Countess  was  sitting  on  a  high-backed  chair,  curiously- 
adorned  with  tapestry.  Her  feet,  which  were  remarkable 
for  their  beauty,  were  upon  a  velvet  cushion;  three  hand- 
maids stood  round  her,  and  she  herself  was  busily  employed 
in  a  piece  of  delicate  embroidery,  an  art  in  which  she  emi- 
nently excelled. 

''The  Count,  Madam!"  said  the  woman  who  had  admitted 
me,  placing  a  chair  beside  my  mother,  and  then  retiring  to 
join  her  sister  maidens. 

"Good  day  to  you,  my  son,"  said  the  Countess,  lifting  her 
eyes  for  a  moment,  and  then  dropping  them  again  upon  her 
work. 

"  I  have  come  to  seek  you,  dearest  mother,  as  I  know  not, 
if,  among  the  crowd  of  guests  and  amusements  which  sur- 
round us,  I  shall  enjoy  another  opportunity  of  having  a  pri- 
vate conversation  with  you:  will  it  please  you  to  dismiss  your 
women  ?  " 

My  mother  again  lifted  up  her  eyes.  ''And  why,  my  son  ? 
surely  there  can  be  nothing  between  us  which  requires  their 
absence ;    what  is  your  reason  ?  " 

"I  leave  you  to-morrow,  Madam:  is  it  strange  that  a  son 
should  wish  to  see  his  mother  alone  before  his  departure  ?  " 

"By  no  means,  Morton;  but  your  absence  will  not  be  very 
long,  will  it  ?  " 

"Forgive  my  importunity,  dear  Mother;  but  will  you  dis- 
miss your  attendants  ?  " 

"If  you  wish  it,  certainly;  but  I  dislike  feeling  alone, 
especially  in  these  large  rooms;  nor  did  I  think  being  un- 
attended quite  consistent  with  our  rank:  however,  I  never 
contradict  you,  my  son,"  and  the  Countess  directed  her 
women  to  wait  in  the  anteroom. 

"  Well,  Morton,  what  is  your  wish  ?  " 

"Only  to  bid  you  farewell,  and  to  ask  if  London  contains 
nothing  which  you  will  commission  me  to  obtain  for  you  ?" 

The  Countess  again  raised  her  eyes  from  her  work.  "I 
am  greatly  obliged  to  you,  my  dear  son;  this  is  a  very  deli- 


88  DEVEREUX. 

cate  attention  on  your  part.  I  am  informed  that  stomacliers 
are  worn  a  thought  less  pointed  than  they  were.  I  care  not, 
you  well  know,  for  such  vanities;  but  respect  for  the  mem- 
ory of  your  illustrious  father  renders  me  desirous  to  retain  a 
seemly  appearance  to  the  world,  and  my  women  shall  give 
you  written  instructions  thereon  to  Madame  Tourville;  she 
lives  in  St.  James's  Street,  and  is  the  only  person  to  be  em- 
ployed in  these  matters.  She  is  a  woman  who  has  known 
misfortune,  and  appreciates  the  sorrowful  and  subdued  tastes 
of  those  whom  an  exalted  station  has  not  preserved  from  like 
afflictions.  So  you  go  to-morrow :  will  you  get  me  the  scis- 
sors ?  They  are  on  the  ivory  table  yonder.  When  do  you 
return  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  never !  "  said  I,  abruptly. 

"  iSTever,  Morton ;  how  singular  —  why  ?  " 

"I  may  join  the  army,  and  be  killed." 

"  I  hope  not.  Dear,  how  cold  it  is :  will  you  shut  the  win- 
dow ?  pray  forgive  my  troubling  you,  but  you  ivould  send 
away  the  women.  Join  the  army,  you  say  ?  It  is  a  very  dan- 
gerous profession;  your  poor  father  might  be  alive  now  but 
for  having  embraced  it;  nevertheless,  in  a  righteous  cause, 
under  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  there  is  great  glory  to  be  obtained 
beneath  its  banners.  Alas,  however,  for  its  private  evils! 
alas,  for  the  orphan  and  the  widow!  You  will  be  sure,  my 
dear  son,  to  give  the  note  to  Madame  Tourville  herself  ?  Her 
assistants  have  not  her  knowledge  of  my  misfortunes,  nor 
indeed  of  my  exact  proportions ;  and  at  my  age,  and  in  my 
desolate  state,  I  would  fain  be  decorous  in  these  things, — 
and  that  reminds  me  of  dinner.  Have  you  aught  else  to  say, 
Morton  ?  " 

"  Yes !  "  said  I,  suppressing  my  emotions,  "  yes,  Mother ! 
do  bestow  on  me  one  warm  wish,  one  kind  word,  before  we 
part:  see, —  I  kneel  for  your  blessing, — will  you  not  give  it 
me?" 

"Bless  you,  my  child, —  bless  you!  look  you  now;  I  have 
dropped  my  needle !  " 

I  rose  hastily,  bowed  profoundly  (my  mother  returned  the 
courtesy  with  the  grace  peculiar  to  herself),  and  withdrew. 


DEVEREUX.  89 

I  hurried  into  the  great  drawing-room,  found  Lady  Keedle- 
ham  alone,  rushed  out  in  despair,  encountered  the  Lady  Has-| 
selton,  and  coquetted  with  her  the  rest  of  the  evening.     Vain 
hope!  to  forget  one's  real  feelings  by  pretending  those  one 
never  felt! 

The  next  morning,  then,  after  suitable  adieux  to  all  (Gerald 
excepted)  whom  I  left  behind;  after  some  tears  too  from  my 
uncle,  which,  had  it  not  been  for  the  presence  of  the  Lady 
Hasselton,  I  could  have  returned  with  interest;  and  after  a 
long  caress  to  his  dog  Fonto,  which  now,  in  parting  with  that 
dear  old  man,  seemed  to  me  as  dog  never  seemed  before,  I 
hurried  into  the  Beauty's  carriage,  bade  farewell  forever  to 
the  Rubicon  of  Life,  and  commenced  my  career  of  manhood 
and  citizenship  by  learning,  under  the  tuition  of  the  prettiest 
coquette  of  her  time,  the  dignified  duties  of  a  Court  Gallant 
and  a  Town  Beau. 


BOOK   11. 


CHAPTEE  I. 

THE  HERO  IN  LONDON.  ^-  PLEASURE  IS  OFTEN  THE  SHORTEST, 
AS  IT  IS  THE  EARLIEST  ROAD  TO  WISDOM,  AND  WE  MAY 
SAY  OF  THE  WORLD  WHAT  ZEAL-OF-THE-LAND-BUSY  SAYS 
OF  THE  PIG-BOOTH,  "  WE  ESCAPE  SO  MUCH  OF  THE  OTHER 
VANITIES    BY   OUR   l^ARLY   ENTERING." 

It  had,  when  I  first  went  to  town,  just  become  the  fashion 
for  young  men  of  fortune  to  keep  house,  and  to  give  their 
bachelor  establishments  the  importance  hitherto  reserved  for 
the  household  of  a  Benedict. 

Let  the  reader  figure  to  himself  a  suite  of  apartments,  mag- 
nificently furnished,  in  the  vicinity  of  the  court.  An  ante- 
room is  crowded  with  divers  persons,  all  messengers  in  the 
various  negotiations  of  pleasure.  There,  a  French  valet, — 
that  inestimable  valet,  Jean  Desmarais, —  sitting  over  a  small 
fire,  was  watching  the  operations  of  a  coffee-pot,  and  convers- 
ing, in  a  mutilated  attempt  at  the  language  of  our  nation, 
though  with  the  enviable  fluency  of  his  own,  with  the  various 
loiterers  who  were  beguiling  the  hours  they  were  obliged  to 
wait  for  an  audience  of  the  master  himself,  by  laughing  at 
the  master's  Gallic  representative.  There  stood  a  tailor  with 
his  books  of  patterns  just  imported  from  Paris, — that  modern 
Prometheus,  who  makes  a  man  what  he  is !  Next  to  him  a 
tall,  gaunt  fellow,  in  a  coat  covered  with  tarnished  lace,  a 
night-cap  wig,  and  a  large  whip  in  his  hands,  comes  to  vouch 
for  the  pedigree  and  excellence  of  the  three  horses  he  intends 


DEVEREUX.  91 

to  dispose  of,  out  of  pure  love  and  amity  for  thie  buyer.  By 
the  window  stood  a  thin  starveling  poet,  who,  like  the  gram- 
marian of  Cos,  might  have  put  lead  in  his  pockets  to  prevent 
being  blown  away,  had  he  not,  with  a  more  paternal  precau- 
tion, put  so  much  in  his  works  that  he  had  left  none  to  spare. 
Excellent  trick  of  the  times,  when  ten  guineas  can  purchase 
every  virtue  under  the  sun,  and  when  an  author  thinks  to 
vindicate  the  sins  of  his  book  by  proving  the  admirable  quali- 
ties of  the  paragon  to  whom  it  is  dedicated.  ^  There  with  an 
air  of  supercilious  contempt  upon  his  smooth  cheeks,  a  page, 
in  purple  and  silver,  sat  upon  the  table,  swinging  his  legs  to 
and  fro,  and  big  with  all  the  reflected  importance  of  a  billet- 
doux.  There  stood  the  pert  haberdasher,  with  his  box  of  sil- 
ver-fringed gloves,  and  lace  which  Diana  might  have  worn. 
At  that  time  there  was  indeed  no  enemy  to  female  chastity 
like  the  former  article  of  man-millinery:  the  delicate  white- 
ness of  the  glove,  the  starry  splendour  of  the  fringe,  were  ir- 
resistible, and  the  fair  Adorna,  in  poor  Lee's  tragedy  of 
"Caesar  Borgia,"  is  far  from  the  only  lady  who  has  been 
killed  by  a  pair  of  gloves. 

Next  to  the  haberdasher,  dingy  and  dull  of  aspect,  a  book- 
hunter  bent  beneath  the  load  of  old  works  gathered  from  stall 
and  shed,  and  about  to  be  re-sold  according  to  the  price  ex- 
acted from  all  literary  gallants  who  affect  to  unite  the  fine 
gentleman  with  the  profound  scholar.  A  little  girl,  whose 
brazen  face  and  voluble  tongue  betrayed  the  growth  of  her 
intellectual  faculties,  leaned  against  the  wainscot,  and  re- 
peated, in  the  anteroom,  the  tart  repartees  which  her  mis- 
tress (the  most  celebrated  actress  of  the  day)  uttered  on  the 
stage ;  while  a  stout,  sturdy,  bull-headed  gentleman,  in  a  gray 
surtout  and  a  black  wig,  mingled  with  the  various  voices  of 
the  motley  group  the  gentle  phrases  of  Hockley-in-the-Hole, 
from  which  place  of  polite  merriment  he  came  charged  with 
a  message  of  invitation.  "While  such  were  the  inmates  of  the 
anteroom,  what  picture  shall  we  draw  of  the  salon  and  its 
occupant? 

^  Thank  Heaven,  for  the  honour  of  literature,  nous  avons  change  tout 
cela .'  —  Ed. 


92  DEYEREUX 

A  table  was  covered  with  books,  a  couple  of  fencing  foils,  a 
woman's  mask,  and  a  profusion  of  letters;  a  scarlet  cloak, 
richly  laced,  hung  over,  trailing  on  the  ground.  Upon  a  slab 
of  marble  lay  a  hat,  looped  with  diamonds,  a  sword,  and  a 
lady's  lute.  Extended  upon  a  sofa,  loosely  robed  in  a  dress- 
ing-gown of  black  velvet,  his  shirt  collar  unbuttoned,  his 
stockings  ungartered,  his  own  hair  (undressed  and  released 
for  a  brief  interval  from  the  false  locks  universally  worn) 
waving  from  his  forehead  in  short  yet  dishevelled  curls,  his 
whole  appearance  stamped  with  the  morning  negligence  which 
usually  follows  midnight  dissipation,  lay  a  young  man  of 
about  nineteen  years.  His  features  were  neither  handsome 
nor  ill-favoured,  and  his  stature  was  small,  slight,  and  some- 
what insignificant,  but  not,  perhaps,  ill-formed  either  for  ac- 
tive enterprise  or  for  muscular  effort.  Such,  reader,  is  the 
picture  of  the  young  prodigal  who  occupied  the  apartments  I 
have  described,  and  such  (though  somewhat  flattered  by  par- 
tiality) is  a  portrait  of  Morton  Devereux,  six  months  after 
his  arrival  in  town. 

The  door  was  suddenly  thrown  open  with  that  unhesitating 
rudeness  by  which  our  friends  think  it  necessary  to  signify 
the  extent  of  their  familiarity;  and  a  young  man  of  about 
eight-and-twenty,  richly  dressed,  and  of  a  countenance  in 
which  a  dissipated  nonchalance  and  an  aristocratic  hauteur 
seemed  to  struggle  for  mastery,   abruptly  entered. 

''What!  ho,  my  noble  royster,"  cried  he,  flinging  himself 
upon  a  chair,  "still  suifering  from  St.  John's  Burgundy! 
Fie,  fie,  upon  your  apprenticeship !  —  why,  before  I  had  served 
half  your  time,  I  could  take  my  three  bottles  as  easily  as  the 
sea  took  the  good  ship  '  Revolution, '  swallow  them  down  with 
a  gulp,  and  never  show  the  least  sign  of  them  the  next 
morning !  " 

"  I  really  believe  you,  most  magnanimous  Tarleton.  Provi- 
dence gives  to  each  of  its  creatures  different  favours, — to  one 
wit,  to  the  other  a  capacity  for  drinking.  A  thousand  pities 
that  they  are  never  united !  " 

"So  bitter,  Count! — ah,  what  will  ever  cure  you  of 
sarcasm  ?  " 


DEVEREUX.  93 

"A  wise  man  by  conversation,  or  fools  by  satiety." 

"  Well,  I  dare  say  that  is  witty  enough,  but  I  never  admire 
fine  things  of  a  morning.  I  like  letting  my  faculties  live  till 
night  in  a  deshabille;  let  us  talk  easily  and  sillily  of  the 
affairs  of  the  day.  Imprimis,  will  you  stroll  to  the  New  Ex- 
change ?  There  is  a  black  eye  there  that  measures  out  ribbons, 
and  my  green  ones  long  to  flirt  with  it." 

"With  all  my  heart  —  and  in  return  you  shall  accompany 
me  to  Master  Powell's  puppet-show." 

"  You  speak  as  wisely  as  Solomon  himself  in  the  puppet- 
show,  I  own  that  I  love  that  sight :  't  is  a  pleasure  to  the 
littleness  of  human  nature  to  see  great  things  abased  by  mim- 
icry; kings  moved  by  bobbins,  and  the  pomps  of  the  earth 
personated  by  Punch." 

"But  how  do  you  like  sharing  the  mirth  of  the  ground- 
lings, the  filthy  plebeians,  and  letting  them  see  how  petty  are 
those  distinctions  which  you  value  so  highly,  by  showing 
them  how  heartily  you  can  laugh  at  such  distinctions  your- 
self ?  Allow,  my  superb  Coriolanus,  that  one  purchases  pride 
by  the  loss  of  consistency." 

"Ah,  Devereux,  you  poison  my  enjoyment  by  the  mere  word 
'plebeian  ' !  Oh,  what  a  beastly  thing  is  a  common  person!  — 
a  shape  of  the  trodden  clay  without  any  alloy ;  a  compound  of 
dirty  clothes,  bacon  breaths,  villanous  smells,  beggarly  cow- 
ardice, and  cattish  ferocity.  Pah,  Devereux!  rub  civet  on 
the  very  thought !  " 

"  Yet  they  will  laugh  to-day  at  the  same  things  you  will, 
and  consequently  there  would  be  a  most  flattering  congeni- 
ality between  you.  Emotion,  whether  of  ridicule,  anger,  or 
sorrow ;  whether  raised  at  a  puppet-show,  a  funeral,  or  a  bat- 
tle,—  is  your  grandest  of  levellers.  The  man  who  would  be 
always  superior  should  be  always  apathetic." 

"Oracular,  as  usual,  Count, — but,  hark,  the  clock  gives 
tongue.     One,  by  the  Lord!  — will  you  not  dress  ?  " 

And  I  rose  and  dressed.  We  passed  through  the  anteroom; 
my  attendant  assistants  in  the  art  of  wasting  money  drew  up 
in  a  row. 

"  Pardon  me,    gentlemen, "   said  I  ("  gentlemen,  indeed !  " 


94  DEVEREUX. 

cried  Tarleton),  "for  keeping  you  so  long,  Mr.  Snivelship, 
your  waistcoats  are  exquisite :  favour  me  by  conversing  with 
my  valet  on  the  width  of  the  lace  for  my  liveries ;  he  has  my 
instructions.  Mr.  Jockelton,  your  horses  shall  be  tried  to- 
morrow at  one.  Ay,  Mr.  Rymer,  I  beg  you  a  thousand  par- 
dons ;  I  beseech  you  to  forgive  the  ignorance  of  my  rascals  in 
suffering  a  gentleman  of  your  merit  to  remain  for  a  moment 
unattended  to.  I  have  read  your  ode;  it  is  splendid,  —  the 
ease  of  Horace  with  the  fire  of  Pindar ;  your  Pegasus  never 
touches  the  earth,  and  yet  in  his  wildest  excesses  you  curb 
him  with  equal  grace  and  facility :  I  object,  sir,  only  to  your 
dedication;  it  is  too  flattering." 

"By  no  means,  my  Lord  Count,  it  fits  you  to  a  hair." 

"Pardon  me,"  interrupted  I,  "and  allow  me  to  transfer  the 
honour  to  Lord  Halifax;  he  loves  men  of  merit;  he  loves  also 
their  dedications.  I  will  mention  it  to  him  to-morrow: 
everything  you  say  of  me  will  suit  him  exactly.  You  will 
oblige  me  with  a  copy  of  your  poem  directly  it  is  printed, 
and  suffer  me  to  pay  your  bookseller  for  it  now,  and  through 
your  friendly  mediation ;  adieu !  " 

"Oh,  Count,  this  is  too  generous." 

"A  letter  forme,  my  pretty  page?  Ah!  tell  her  ladyship 
I  shall  wait  upon  her  commands  at  Powell's :  time  will  move 
with  a  tortoise  speed  till  I  kiss  her  hands.  Mr.  Fribbleden, 
your  gloves  would  fit  the  giants  at  Guildhall :  my  valet  will 
furnish  you  with  my  exact  size ;  you  will  see  to  the  legitimate 
breadth  of  the  fringe.  My  little  beauty,  you  are  from  Mrs. 
Bracegirdle:  the  play  shall  succeed;  I  have  taken  seven 
boxes;  Mr.  St.  John  promised  his  influence.  Say,  therefore, 
my  Hebe,  that  the  thing  is  certain,  and  let  me  kiss  thee :  thou 
hast  dew  on  thy  lip  already.  Mr.  Thumpen,  you  are  a  fine 
fellow,  and  deserve  to  be  encouraged;  I  will  see  that  the  next 
time  your  head  is  broken  it  shall  be  broken  fairly :  but  I  will 
not  patronize  the  bear;  consider  that  peremptory.  What, 
Mr.  Bookworm,  again!  I  hope  you  have  succeeded  better 
this  time :  the  old  songs  had  an  autumn  fit  upon  them,  and 
had  lost  the  best  part  of  their  leaves;  and  Plato  had  mortgaged 
one  half  his  "Republic,"  to  pay,  I  suppose,  the  exorbitant 


DEVEREUX.  95 

sum  you  thought  proper  to  set  upon  the  other.  As  for  Diog- 
enes Laertius,  and  his  philosophers  —  " 

"Pish!"  interrupted  Tarleton;  "are  you  going,  by  your 
theoretical  treatises  on  philosophy,  to  make  me  learn  the 
practical  part  of  it,  and  prate  upon  learning  while  I  am  sup- 
porting myself  with  patience  ?  " 

"Pardon  me!  Mr.  Bookworm;  you  will  deposit  your  load, 
and  visit  me  to-morrow  at  an  earlier  hour.  And  now, 
Tarleton,  I  am  at  your  service." 


CHAPTER  II. 

GAT   SCEXES    AND    CONVERSATIONS. THE   NEW  EXCHANGE  AND 

THE    PUPPET-SHOW. THE    ACTOR,     THE    SEXTON,     AND    THE 

BEAUTY. 

"Well,  Tarleton,"  said  I,  looking  round  that  mart  of  mil- 
linery and  love-making,  which,  so  celebrated  in  the  reign  of 
Charles  II.,  still  preserved  the  shadow  of  its  old  renown  in 
that  of  Anne, —  "well,  here  we  are  upon  the  classical  ground  so 
often  commemorated  in  the  comedies  which  our  chaste  grand- 
mothers thronged  to  see.  Here  we  can  make  appointments, 
while  we  profess  to  buy  gloves,  and  should  our  mistress  tarry 
too  long,  beguile  our  impatience  by  a  flirtation  with  her  mil- 
liner. Is  there  not  a  breathing  air  of  gayety  about  the  place  ? 
—  does  it  not  still  smack  of  the  Ethereges  and  Sedleys?  " 

"Right,"  said  Tarleton,  leaning  over  a  counter  and  amor- 
ously eying  the  pretty  coquette  to  whom  it  belonged ;  while, 
with  the  coxcombry  then  in  fashion,  he  sprinkled  the  long 
curls  that  touched  his  shoulders  with  a  fragrant  shower  from 
a  bottle  of  jessamine  water  upon  the  counter, —  "right;  saw 
you  ever  such  an  eye  ?  Have  you  snuff  of  the  true  scent,  my 
beauty  —  foh!  this  is  for  the  nostril  of  a  Welsh  parson  — 
choleric  and  hot,  my  beauty, — pulverized  horse-radish, — 
why,  it  would  make  a  nose  of  the  coldest  constitution  imagin- 


96  DEVEREUX. 

able  sneeze  like  a  washed  school-boy  on  a  Saturday  night. — 
Ah,  this  is  better,  my  princess:  there  is  some  courtesy  in 
this  snuff;  it  flatters  the  brain  like  a  poet's  dedication. 
Eight,  Devereux,  right,  there  is  something  infectious  in  the 
atmosphere;  one  catches  good  humour  as  easily  as  if  it  were 
cold.  Shall  we  stroll  on  ?  —  m//  Clelia  is  on  the  other  side  of 
the  Exchange. —  You  were  speaking  of  the  play -writers :  what 
a  pity  that  our  Ethereges  and  Wycherleys  should  be  so  frank 
in  their  gallantry  that  the  prudish  public  already  begins  to 
look  shy  on  them.     They  have  a  world  of  wit!  " 

"Ay,"  said  I;  "and,  as  my  good  uncle  would  say,  a  world 
of  knowledge  of  human  nature,  namely,  of  the  worst  part  of 
it.  But  they  are  worse  than  merely  licentious :  they  are  pos- 
itively villanous;  pregnant  with  the  most  redemptionless 
scoundrelism, — cheating,  lying,  thieving,  and  fraud;  their 
humour  debauches  the  whole  moral  system ;  they  are  like  the 
Sardinian  herb, — they  make  you  laugh,  it  is  true,  but  they 
poison  you  in  the  act.  But  who  comes  here  ?  " 
V         "  Oh,  honest  Coll !  —  Ah,  Gibber,  how  goes  it  with  you  ?  " 

The  person  thus  addressed  was  a  man  of  about  the  middle 
age,  very  grotesquely  attired,  and  with  a  periwig  preposter- 
ously long.  His  countenance  (which,  in  its  features,  was 
rather  comely)  was  stamped  with  an  odd  mixture  of  liveli- 
ness, impudence,  and  a  coarse  yet  not  unjoyous  spirit  of  reck- 
less debauchery.  He  approached  us  with  a  saunter,  and 
saluted  Tarleton  with  an  air  servile  enough,  in  spite  of  an 
affected  familiarity. 

"What  think  you,"  resumed  my  companion,  "we  were 
conversing  upon  ?  " 

"Why,  indeed,  Mr.  Tarleton,"  answered  Gibber,  bowing 
very  low,  "  unless  it  were  the  exquisite  fashion  of  your  waist- 
coat, or  your  success  with  my  Lady  Duchess,  I  know  not  what 
to  guess." 

"Pooh,  man,"  said  Tarleton,  haughtily,  " none  of  your  com- 
pliments; "  and  then  added  in  a  milder  tone,  "No,  Golley,  Ave 
were  abusing  the  immoralities  that  existed  on  the  stage  until 
thou,  by  the  light  of  thy  virtuous  example,  didst  undertake 
to  reform  it." 


DEVEREUX.  9T 

"Why,"  rejoined  Gibber,  with  an  air  of  mock  sanctity, 
"Heaven  be  praised,  I  have  pulled  out  some  of  the  weeds 
from  oiir  theatrical  parterre  — " 

"  Hear  you  that,  Count  ?  Does  he  not  look  a  pretty  fellow 
for  a  censor  ?  " 

"Surely,"  said  Gibber,  "ever  since  Dicky  Steele  has  set  up 
for  a  saint,  and  assumed  the  methodistical  twang,  some  hopes 
of  conversion  may  be  left  even  for  such  reprobates  as  myself. 
Where,  may  I  ask,  will  Mr.  Tarleton  drink  to-night  ?  " 

"Xot  with  thee,  Goll.  The  Saturnalia  don't  happen  every 
day.  Eid  us  now  of  thy  company:  but  stop,  I  will  do  thee 
a  pleasure ;    know  you  this  gentleman  ? " 

"I  have  not  that  extreme  honour." 

"Know  a  Gount,  then!  Gount  Devereux,  demean  yourself 
by  sometimes  acknowledging  Golley  Gibber,  a  rare  fellow  at 
a  song,  a  bottle,  and  a  message  to  an  actress ;  a  lively  rascal 
enough,  but  without  the  goodness  to  be  loved,  or  the  inde- 
pendence to  be  respected." 

"Mr.  Gibber,"  said  I,  rather  hurt  at  Tarleton's  speech, 
though  the  object  of  it  seemed  to  hear  this  description  with 
the  most  unruffled  composure  —  "  Mr.  Gibber,  I  am  happy  and 
proud  of  an  introduction  to  the  author  of  the  'Gareless 
Husband.'  Here  is  my  address;  oblige  me  with  a  visit  at 
your  leisure." 

"  How  could  you  be  so  galling  to  the  poor  devil  ?  "  said  T, 
when  Gibber,  with  a  profusion  of  bows  and  compliments,  had 
left  us  to  ourselves. 

"Ah,  hang  him,  —  a  low  fellow,  who  pins  all  his  happiness 
to  the  skirts  of  the  quality,  is  proud  of  being  despised,  and 
that  which  would  excruciate  the  vanity  of  others  only  flatters 
his.     And  now  for  my  Glelia." 

After  my  companion  had  amused  himself  with  a  brief  flir- 
tation with  a  young  lady  who  affected  a  most  edifying  demure- 
ness,  we  left  the  Exchange,  and  repaired  to  the  puppet-show. 

On  entering  the  Piazza,  in  which,  as  I  am  writing  for  the 
next  century,  it  may  be  necessary  to  say  that  Punch  held  his 
court,  we  saw  a  tall,  thin  fellow,  loitering  under  the  columns, 
and  exhibiting  a  countenance  of  the  most  ludicrous  discon- 

7 


98  DEVEREUX. 

tent.  Tliere  was  an  insolent  arrogance  about  Tarleton's  good- 
nature, which  always  led  him  to  consult  the  whim  of  the 
moment  at  the  expense  of  every  other  consideration,  espe- 
cially if  the  whim  referred  to  a  member  of  the  canaille  whom 
my  aristocratic  friend  esteemed  as  a  base  part  of  the  exclusive 
and  despotic  property  of  gentlemen. 

"Egad,  Devereux,"  said  he,  "do  you  see  that  fellow?  he 
has  the  audacity  to  affect  spleen.  Faith,  I  thought  melan- 
choly was  the  distinguishing  patent  of  nobility:  we  will 
smoke  him."  And  advancing  towards  the  man  of  gloom, 
Tarleton  touched  him  with  the  end  of  his  cane.  The  man 
started  and  turned  round.  "Pray,  sirrah,"  said  Tarleton, 
coldly,  "pray  who  the  devil  are  you  that  you  presume  to  look 
discontented  ?  " 

"Why,  Sir,"  said  the  man,  good-humouredly  enough,  "I 
have  some  right  to  be  angry." 

"I  doubt  it,  my  friend,"  said  Tarleton.  "What  is  your 
complaint  ?  a  rise  in  the  price  of  tripe,  or  a  drinking  wife  ? 
Those,  I  take  it,  are  the  sole  misfortunes  incidental  to  your 
condition." 

"If  that  be  the  case,"  said  I,  observing  a  cloud  on  our  new 
friend's  brow,  "  shall  we  heal  thy  sufferings  ?  Tell  us  thy 
complaints,  and  we  will  prescribe  thee  a  silver  specific;  there 
is  a  sample  of  our  skill." 

"Thank  you  humbly,  gentlemen,"  said  the  man,  pocketing 
the  money,  and  clearing  his  countenance;  "and  seriously, 
mine  is  an  uncommonly  hard  case.  I  was,  till  within  the 
last  few  weeks,  the  under-sexton  of  St.  Paul's,  Covent  Garden, 
and  my  duty  was  that  of  ringing  the  bells  for  daily  prayers : 
but  a  man  of  Belial  came  hitherwards,  set  up  a  puppet-show, 
and,  timing  the  hours  of  his  exhibition  with  a  wicked  saga- 
city, made  the  bell  I  rang  for  church  serve  as  a  summons  to 
Punch, —  so,  gentlemen,  that  whenever  your  humble  servant 
began  to  pull  for  the  Lord,  his  perverted  congregation  began 
to  flock  to  the  devil;  and,  instead  of  being  an  instrument  for 
saving  souls,  I  was  made  the  innocent  means  of  destroying 
them.  Oh,  gentlemen,  it  was  a  shocking  thing  to  tug  away 
at  the  rope  till  the  sweat  ran  down  one,  for  four  shillings  a 


DEVEREUX.  99 

week;  and  to  see  all  the  time  that  one  was  thinning  one's 
own  congregation  and  emptying  one's  own  pockets!  " 

"It  was  indeed  a  lamentable  dilemma;  and  what  did  you, 
Mr.  Sexton  ?  " 

"  Do,  Sir  ?  why,  I  could  not  stifle  my  conscience,  and  I  left 
my  place.  Ever  since  then,  Sir,  I  have  stationed  myself  in 
the  Piazza,  to  warn  my  poor,  deluded  fellow-creatures  of  their 
error,  and  to  assure  them  that  when  the  bell  of  St.  Paul's 
rings,  it  rings  for  prayers,  and  not  for  puppet-shows,  and  — 
Lord  help  us,  there  it  goes  at  this  very  moment;  and  look, 
look,  gentlemen,  how  the  wigs  and  hoods  are  crowding  to  the 
motion^  instead  of  the  minister." 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!  "  cried  Tarleton,  "Mr.  Powell  is  not  the  first 
man  who  has  wrested  things  holy  to  serve  a  carnal  purpose, 
and  made  use  of  church  bells  in  order  to  ring  money  to  the 
wide  pouch  of  the  church's  enemies.  Hark  ye,  my  friend, 
follow  my  advice,  and  turn  preacher  yourself;  mount  a  cart 
opposite  to  the  motion,  and  I  '11  wager  a  trifle  that  the  crowd 
forsake  the  theatrical  mountebank  in  favour  of  the  religious 
one;  for  the  more  sacred  the  thing  played  upon,  the  more 
certain  is  the  game." 

"Body  of  me,  gentlemen,"  cried  the  ex-sexton,  "I  '11  follow 
your  advice." 

"Do  so,  man,  and  never  presume  to  look  doleful  again; 
leave  dulness  to  your  superiors."^ 

And  with  this  advice,  and  an  additional  compensation  for 
his  confidence,  we  left  the  innocent  assistant  of  Mr.  Powell, 
and  marched  into  the  puppet-show,  by  the  sound  of  the  very 
bells  the  perversion  of  which  the  good  sexton  had  so  patheti- 
cally lamented. 

The  first  person  I  saw  at  the  show,  and  indeed  the  express 
person  I  came  to  see,  was  the  Lady  Hasselton.  Tarleton 
and  myself  separated  for  the  present,  and  I  repaired  to  the 
coquette.  "  Angels  of  grace !  "  said  I,  approaching;  "and,  by 
the  by,  before  I  proceed  another  word,  observe,  Lady  Hassel- 
ton, hoAV  appropriate  the  exclamation  is  to  you!     Angels  of 

^  An  antiquated  word  in  use  for  puppet-shows. 

*  See  "  Spectator,"  Xo.  14,  for  a  letter  from  this  unfortunate  under-sexton. 


100  DEVEREUX. 

grace  !  why,  you  have  moved  all  your  patches  —  one  —  two  — 
three  —  six  —  eight  —  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  from  the  left  side 
of  your  cheek  to  the  right !  What  is  the  reason  of  so  sudden 
an  emigration  ?  " 

"  I  have  changed  my  politics.  Count,  ^  that  is  all,  and  have 
resolved  to  lose  no  time  in  proclaiming  the  change.  But  is 
it  true  that  you  are  going  to  be  married  ? " 

"Married!  Heaven  forbid!  which  of  my  enemies  spread  so 
cruel  a  report  ?  " 

"Oh,  the  report  is  universal!"  and  the  Lady  Hasselton 
flirted  her  fan  with  the  most  flattering  violence. 

"  It  is  false,  nevertheless ;  I  cannot  afford  to  buy  a  wife  at 
present,  for,  thanks  to  jointures  and  pin-money,  these  things 
are  all  matters  of  commerce ;  and  (see  how  closely  civilized  life 
resembles  the  savage!)  the  English,  like  the  Tartar  gentleman, 
obtains  his  wife  only  by  purchase !     But  who  is  the  bride  ?  " 

"The  Duke  of  Newcastle's  rich  daughter.  Lady  Henrietta 
Pelham." 

"What,  Harley's  object  of  ambition I^  Faith,  Madam,  the 
report  is  not  so  cruel  as  I  thought  for ! " 

"  Oh,  you  fop !  —  but  is  it  not  true  ?  " 

"By  my  honour,  I  fear  not;  my  rivals  are  too  numerous 
and  too  powerful.  Look  now,  yonder !  how  they  already  flock 
around  the  illustrious  heiress ;  note  those  smiles  and  simpers. 
Is  it  not  pretty  to  see  those  very  fine  gentlemen  imitating 
bumpkins  at  a  fair,  and  grinning  their  best  for  a  gold  ring  ! 
But  you  need  not  fear  me.  Lady  Hasselton,  my  love  cannot 
wander  if  it  would.  In  the  quaint  thought  of  Sidney,^  love 
having  once  flown  to  my  heart,  burned  its  wings  there,  and 
cannot  fly  away." 

"  La,  you  now ! "  said  the  beauty ;  "  I  do  not  comprehend 
you  exactly:  your  master  of  the  graces  does  not  teach  you 
your  compliments  properly." 

1  Whig  ladies  patched  on  one  side  of  the  cheek,  Tories  on  the  other. 

2  Lord  Bolingbroke  tells  us  that  it  was  the  main  end  of  Harley's  adminis- 
tration to  marry  his  son  to  this  lady.  Tims  is  the  fate  of  nations  a  bundle 
made  up  of  a  thousand  little  private  schemes. 

8  In  the  "  Arcadia,"  that  museum  of  oddities  and  beauties. 


DEVEREUX.  101 

*'Yes,  he  does,  but  in  your  presence  I  forget  them;  and 
now,"  I  added,  lowering  my  voice  into  the  lowest  of  whis- 
pers, "  now  that  you  are  assured  of  my  fidelity,  will  you  not 
learn  at  last  to  discredit  rumours  and  trust  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  love  you  too  well !  "  answered  the  Lady  Hasselton  in  the 
same  tone,  and  that  answer  gives  an  admirable  idea  of  the 
affection  of  every  coquette!  love  and  confidence  with  them 
are  qualities  that  have  a  natural  antipathy,  and  can  never  be 
united.  Our  tete-a-tete  was  at  an  end;  the  people  round  us 
became  social,  and  conversation  general. 

"Betterton  acts  to-morrow  night,"  cried  the  Lady  Pratterly : 
"  we  must  go !  " 

"We  mast  go,"  cried  the  Lady  Hasselton. 

"  We  must  go !  "  cried  all. 

And  so  passed  the  time  till  the  puppet-show  was  over,  and 
my  attendance  dispensed  with. 

It  is  a  charming  thing  to  be  the  lover  of  a  lady  of  the  mode ! 
One  so  honoured  does  with  his  hours  as  a  miser  with  his 
guineas;   namely,  nothing  but  count  them! 


CHAPTER   III. 

MORE   LIONS. 

The  next  night,  after  the  theatre,  Tarleton  and  I  strolled 
into  Wills's.  Half-a-dozen  wits  were  assembled.  Heavens! 
how  they  talked !  actors,  actresses,  poets,  statesmen,  philoso- 
phers, critics,  divines,  were  all  pulled  to  pieces  with  the 
most  gratifying  malice  imaginable.  We  sat  ourselves  down, 
and  while  Tarleton  amused  himself  with  a  dish  of  coffee  and 
the  "Flying  Post,"  I  listened  very  attentively  to  the  conver- 
sation. Certainly  if  we  would  take  every  opportunity  of  get- 
ting a  grain  or  two  of  knowledge,  we  should  soon  have  a 
chest-full ;  a  man  earned  an  excellent  subsistence  by  asking 
every  one  who  came  out  of  a  tobacconist's  shop  for  a  pinch  of 


102  DEVEREUX. 

snuff,  and  retailing  the  mixture  as  soon  as  he  had  filled  his 
box.^ 

While  I  was  listening  to  a  tall  lusty  gentleman,  who  was 
abusing  Dogget,  the  actor,  a  well-dressed  man  entered,  and 
immediately  attracted  the  general  observation.  He  was  of  a 
very  flat,  ill-favoured  countenance,  but  of  a  quick  eye,  and  a 
genteel  air;  there  was,  however,  something  constrained  and 
artificial  in  his  address,  and  he  appeared  to  be  endeavouring 
to  clothe  a  natural  good-humour  with  a  certain  primness 
which  could  never  be  made  to  fit  it. 
^  "  Ha,  Steele !  "  cried  a  gentleman  in  an  orange-coloured  coat, 
who  seemed  by  a  fashionable  swagger  of  importance  desirous 
of  giving  the  tone  to  the  company, —  "Ha,  Steele,  whence 
come  you  ?  from  the  chapel  or  the  tavern  ?  "  and  the  speaker 
winked  round  the  room  as  if  he  wished  us  to  participate  in 
the  pleasure  of  a  good  thing. 

Mr.  Steele  drew  up,  seemingly  a  little  affronted;  but  his 
good-nature  conquering  the  affectation  of  personal  sanctity, 
which,  at  the  time  I  refer  to,  that  excellent  writer  was  pleased 
to  assume,  he  contented  himself  with  nodding  to  the  speaker, 
and  saying, — 

"  All  the  world  knows,  Colonel  Cleland,  that  you  are  a  wit, 
and  therefore  we  take  your  fine  sayings  as  we  take  change 
from  an  honest  tradesman, —  rest  perfectly  satisfied  with  the 
coin  we  get,  without  paying  any  attention  to  it." 

"Zounds,  Cleland,  you  got  the  worst  of  it  there,"  cried  a 
gentleman  in  a  flaxen  wig.  And  Steele  slid  into  a  seat  near 
my  own. 

Tarleton,  who  was  sufficiently  well  educated  to  pretend  to 
the  character  of  a  man  of  letters,  hereupon  thought  it  neces- 
sary to  lay  aside  the  "  Flying  Post, "  and  to  introduce  me  to 
my  literary  neighbour. 

"Pray,"  said  Colonel  Cleland,  taking  snuff  and  swinging 
himself  to  and  fro  with  an  air  of  fashionable  grace,  "has  any 
one  seen  the  new  paper  ?  " 

"What!"  cried  the  gentleman  in  the  flaxen  wig,  "what! 
the  'Tatler's'  successor, — the  'Spectator'?" 

1  "Tatler." 


DEVEREUX.  103 

"  The  same, "  quoth  the  colonel. 

"To  be  sure;  who  has  not?"  returned  he  of  the  flaxen 
ornament.     "People  say  Congreve  writes  it." 

"They  are  very  much  mistaken,  then,"  cried  a  little  square 
man  with  spectacles ;  "to  my  certain  knowledge  Swift  is  the 
author." 

"Pooh!"  said  Cleland,  imperiously,  "pooh!  it  is  neither 
the  one  nor  the  other ;  I,  gentlemen,  am  in  the  secret  —  but 
—  you  take  me,  eh  ?  One  must  not  speak  well  of  one's  self; 
mum  is  the  word." 

"Then,"  asked  Steele,  quietly,  "we  are  to  suppose  that 
you.   Colonel,   are  the  writer  ? " 

"  I  never  said  so,  Dicky ;  but  the  women  will  have  it  that  I 
am,"  and  the  colonel  smoothed  down  his  cravat. 

"  Pray,  Mr.  Addison,  what  say  you  ?  "  cried  the  gentleman 
in  the  flaxen  wig;  "are  you  for  Congreve,  Swift,  or  Colonel 
Cleland?  "  This  was  addressed  to  a  gentleman  of  a  grave  but 
rather  prepossessing  mien;  who,  with  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
ground,  was  very  quietly  and  to  all  appearance  very  inatten- 
tively solacing  himself  with  a  pipe ;  without  lifting  his  eyes, 
this  personage,  then  eminent,  afterwards  rendered  immortal, 
replied, — 

"Colonel  Cleland  must  produce  other  witnesses  to  prove 
his  claim  to  the  authorship  of  the  'Spectator:'  the  women, 
we  well  know,  are  prejudiced  in  his  favour." 

"That 's  true  enough,  old  friend,"  cried  the  colonel,  looking 
askant  at  his  orange-coloured  coat;  "but  faith,  Addison,  I 
wish  you  would  set  up  a  paper  of  the  same  sort,  d'  ye  see ; 
you  're  a  nice  judge  of  merit,  and  your  sketches  of  character 
would  do  justice  to  your  friends." 

"If  ever  I  do.  Colonel,  I,  or  my  coadjutors,  will  study  at 
least  to  do  justice  to  you. "  ^ 

"Prithee,  Steele,"  cried  the  stranger  in  spectacles,  "pri- 
thee, tell  us  thy  thoughts  on  the  subject :  dost  thou  know  the 
author  of  this  droll  periodical  ?  " 

"I  saw  him  this  morning,"  replied  Steele,  carelessly. 

1  This  seems  to  corroborate  the  suspicion  entertained  of  the  identity  of 
Colonel  Cleland  vdth  the  "Will  Honeycomb  of  the  "  Spectator." 


10  i  DEVEREUX. 

"Aha!  and  what  said  you  to  him?" 

"I  asked  him  his  name." 

"And  what  did  he  answer?"  cried  he  of  the  flaxen  wig, 
while  all  of  us  crowded  round  the  speaker,  with  the  curiosity 
every  one  felt  in  the  authorship  of  a  work  then  exciting  the 
most  universal  and  eager  interest. 

"He  answered  me  solemnly,"  said  Steele,  "in  the  follow- 
ing words,  — 

" '  Grseci  carent  ablative,  Itali  dativo,  ego  nominativo.' "  ^ 

"Famous  —  capital!"  cried  the  gentleman  in  spectacles; 
and  then,  touching  Colonel  Cleland,  added,  "what  does  it 
exactly  mean  ?  " 

"  Ignoramus !  "  said  Cleland,  disdainfully,  "  every  schoolboy 
knows  Virgil !  " 

"Devereux,"  said Tarleton,  yawning,  "what  a  d— d  delight- 
ful thing  it  is  to  hear  so  much  wit :  pity  that  the  atmosphere 
is  so  fine  that  no  lungs  unaccustomed  to  it  can  endure  it  long. 
Let  us  recover  ourselves  by  a  walk." 

"Willingly,"  said  I;  and  we  sauntered  forth  into  the 
streets. 

"Wills's  is  not  what  it  was,"  said  Tarleton;  "'tis  a  piti- 
ful ghost  of  its  former  self,  and  if  they  had  not  introduced 
cards,   one  would  die  of  the  vapours  there." 

"I  know  nothing  so  insipid,"  said  I,  "as  that  mock  literary 
air  which  it  is  so  much  the  fashion  to  assume.  'T  is  but  a 
wearisome  relief  to  conversation  to  have  interludes  of  songs 
about  Strephon  and  Sylvia,  recited  with  a  lisp  by  a  gentleman 
with  fringed  gloves  and  a  languishing  look." 

"Fie  on  it,"  cried  Tarleton,  "let  us  seek  for  a  fresher  topic. 
Are  you  asked  to  Abigail  Masham's  to-night,  or  will  you 
come  to  Dame  de  la   Eiviere  Mauley's?" 

"  Dame  de  la  what  ?  —  in  the  name  of  long  words  who  is 
she  ?  " 

"Oh!  Learning  made  libidinous:  one  who  reads  Catullus 
and  profits  by  it." 

1  "  The  Greek  wants  an  ablative,  the  Italians  a  dative,  I  a  nominative." 


DEVEREUX.  105 

"Bah,  no,  we  will  not  leave  the  gentle  Abigail  for  her.  I 
have  promised  to  meet  St.  John,  too,  at  the  Mashams'." 

"As  you  like.  We  shall  get  some  wine  at  Abigail's, 
which  we  should  never  do  at  the  house  of  her  cousin  of 
Marlborough." 

And,  comforting  himself  with  this  belief,  Tarleton  peace- 
ably accompanied  me  to  that  celebrated  woman,  who  did  the 
Tories  such  notable  service,  at  the  expense  of  being  termed 
b}'  the  Whigs  one  great  want  divided  into  two  parts ;  namely, 
a  great  want  of  every  shilling  belonging  to  other  people,  and 
a  great  want  of  every  virtue  that  should  have  belonged  to  her- 
self. As  we  mounted  the  staircase,  a  door  to  the  left  (a  pri- 
vate apartment)  was  opened,  and  I  saw  the  favourite  dismiss, 
with  the  most  flattering  air  of  respect,  my  old  preceptor,  the 
Abbe  Montreuil.  He  received  her  attentions  as  his  due,  and, 
descending  the  stairs,  came  full  upon  me.  He  drew  back, 
changed  neither  hue  nor  muscle,  bowed  civilly  enough,  and 
disappeared.  I  had  not  much  opportunity  to  muse  over  this 
circumstance,  for  St.  John  and  Mr.  Domville  —  excellent  com- 
panions both  —  joined  us ;  and  the  party  being  small,  we  had 
the  unwonted  felicity  of  talking,  as  well  as  bowing,  to  each 
other.  It  was  impossible  to  think  of  any  one  else  when  St. 
John  chose  to  exert  himself;  and  so  even  the  Abbe  Montreuil 
glided  out  of  my  brain  as  St.  John's  wit  glided  into  it.  We 
were  all  of  the  same  way  of  thinking  on  politics,  and  therefore 
were  witty  without  being  quarrelsome,  —  a  rare  thing.  The 
trusty  Abigail  told  us  stories  of  the  good  Queen,  and  we  added 
hons  mots  by  way  of  corollary.  Wine,  too,  wine  that  even 
Tarleton  approved,  lit  up  our  intellects,  and  we  spent  alto- 
gether an  evening  such  as  gentlemen  and  Tories  very  seldom 
have  the  sense  to  enjoy. 

0  Apollo !  I  wonder  whether  Tories  of  the  next  century  will 
be  such  clever,  charming,  well-informed  fellows  as  we  were! 


106  DEVEREUX. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

AN  INTELLECTUAL   ADVEXTUKE. 

A  LITTLE  affected  by  the  vinous  potations  which  had  been 
so  much  an  object  of  anticipation  with  my  companion,  Tarle- 
ton  and  I  were  strolling  homeward  when  we  perceived  a  re- 
markably tall  man  engaged  in  a  contest  with  a  couple  of 
watchmen.  Watchmen  were  in  all  cases  the  especial  and 
natural  enemies  of  the  gallants  in  my  young  days;  and  no 
sooner  did  we  see  the  unequal  contest  than,  drawing  our 
swords  with  that  true  English  valour  which  makes  all  the 
quarrels  of  other  people  its  own,  we  hastened  to  the  relief  of 
the  weaker  party. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  elder  watchman,  drawing  back, 
"  this  is  no  common  brawl ;  we  have  been  shamefully  beaten 
by  this  here  madman,  and  for  no  earthly  cause." 

"  Who  ever  did  beat  a  watchman  for  any  earthly  cause,  you 
rascal  ?  "  cried  the  accused  party,  swinging  his  walking  cane 
over  the  complainant's  head  with  a  menacing  air. 

"Very  true,"  cried  Tarleton,  coolly.  "Seigneurs  of  the 
watch,  you  are  both  made  and  paid  to  be  beaten ;  ergo  —  you 
have  no  right  to  complain.  Eelease  this  worthy  cavalier, 
and  depart  elsewhere  to  make  night  hideous  with  your 
voices." 

"  Come,  come, "  quoth  the  younger  Dogberry,  who  perceived 
a  reinforcement  approaching,  "  move  on,  good  people,  and  let 
us  do  our  duty." 

"Which,"  interrupted  the  elder  watchman,  "consists  in 
taking  this  hulking  swaggerer  to  the  watchhouse." 

"Thou  speakest  wisely,  man  of  peace,"  said  Tarleton;  "de- 
fend thyself ;  "  and  without  adding  another  word  he  ran  the 
watchman  through  —  not  the  body  but  the  coat;  avoiding 
with  great  dexterity  the  corporeal  substance  of  the  attacked 


DEVEREUX.  107 

party,  and  yet  approacliing  it  so  closely  as  to  give  the  guar- 
dian of  the  streets  very  reasonable  ground  for  apprehension. 
No  sooner  did  the  watchman  find  the  hilt  strike  against  his 
breast,  than  he  uttered  a  dismal  cry  and  fell  upon  the  pave- 
ment as  if  he  had  been  shot. 

"Now  for  thee,  varlet,"  cried  Tarleton,  brandishing  his  ra- 
pier before  the  eyes  of  the  other  watchman,  "tremble  at  the 
sword  of  Gideon." 

"0  Lord,  0  Lord!"  ejaculated  the  terrified  comrade  of  the 
fallen  man,  dropping  on  his  knees,  "for  Heaven's  sake,  sir, 
have  a  care." 

"  What  argument  canst  thou  allege,  thou  screech-owl  of  the 
metropolis,  that  thou  shouldst  not  share  the  same  fate  as  thy 
brother  owl  ?  " 

"Oh,  sir!  "  cried  the  craven  night-bird  (a  bit  of  a  humourist 
in  its  way),  "because  I  have  a  nest  and  seven  little  owlets  at 
home,  and  t'  other  owl  is  only  a  bachelor." 

"Thou  art  an  impudent  thing  to  jest  at  us,"  said  Tarleton; 
"but  thy  wit  has  saved  thee;  rise." 

At  this  moment  two  other  watchmen  came  up. 

"  Gentlemen, "  said  the  tall  stranger  whom  we  had  rescued, 
"we  had  better  fly." 

Tarleton  cast  at  him  a  contemptuous  look,  and  placed  him- 
self in  a  posture  of  offence. 

"Hark  ye,"  said  I,  "let  us  effect  an  honourable  peace. 
Messieurs  the  watch,  be  it  lawful  for  you  to  carry  off  the 
slain,  and  for  us  to  claim  the  prisoners." 

But  our  new  foes  understood  not  a  jest,  and  advanced  upon 
us  with  a  ferocity  which  might  really  have  terminated  in  a 
serious  engagement,  had  not  the  tall  stranger  thrust  his  bulky 
form  in  front  of  the  approaching  battalion,  and  cried  out  with 
a  loud  voice,  "  Zounds,  my  good  fellows,  what 's  all  this  for  ? 
If  you  take  us  up  you  will  get  broken  heads  to-night,  and  a 
few  shillings  perhaps  to-morrow.  If  you  leave  us  alone,  you 
will  have  whole  heads,  and  a  guinea  between  you.  Now, 
what  say  you  ?  " 

Well  spoke  Phsedra  against  the  dangers  of  eloquence  (*caXol 
Xi'av  Xoyot).     The  watchmen  looked  at  each  other.      "Why 


108  DEVEREUX. 

really,  sir,"  said  one,  "what  you  say  alters  the  case  very 
much;  and  if  Dick  here  is  not  much  hurt,  I  don't  know  what 
we  may  say  to  the  offer." 

So  saying,  they  raised  the  fallen  watchman,  who,  after 
three  or  four  grunts,  began  slowly  to  recover  himself. 

"Are  you  dead,  Dick  ?"  said  the  owl  wath  seven  owlets. 

*'  I  think  I  am, "  answered  the  other,  groaning. 

"  Are  you  able  to  drink  a  pot  of  ale,  Dick  ?  "  cried  the  tall 
stranger. 

"I  think  I  am,"  reiterated  the  dead  man,  very  lack-a-daisi- 
cally.  And  this  answer  satisfying  his  comrades,  the  articles 
of  peace  were  subscribed  to. 

Now,  then,  the  tall  stranger  began  searching  his  pockets 
with  a  most  consequential  air. 

"Gad,  so!"  said  he  at  last;  "not  in  my  breeches  pocket! 
—  well,  it  must  be  in  my  waistcoat.  No.  Well,  't  is  a  strange 
thing  —  demme  it  is!  Gentlemen,  I  have  had  the  misfor- 
tune to  leave  my  purse  behind  me :  add  to  your  other  favours 
by  lending  me  wherewithal  to  satisfy  these  honest  men." 

And  Tarleton  lent  him  the  guinea.  The  watchmen  now  re- 
tired, and  we  were  left  alone  with  our  portly  ally. 

Placing  his  hand  to  his  heart  he  made  us  half-a-dozen 
profound  boAvs,  returned  us  thanks  for  our  assistance  in 
some  very  courtly  phrases,  and  requested  us  to  allow  him  to 
make  our  acquaintance.  We  exchanged  cards  and  departed 
on  our  several  ways. 

"I  have  met  that  gentleman  before,"  said  Tarleton.  "Let 
us  see  what  name  he  pretends  to.  'Fielding  —  Fielding;'  ah, 
by  the  Lord,  it  is  no  less  a  person !  It  is  the  great  Fielding 
himself." 

"Is  Mr.  Fielding,  then,  as  elevated  in  fame  as  in  stature?" 

"  What,  is  it  possible  that  you  have  not  yet  heard  of  Beau 
Fielding,  who  bared  his  bosom  at  the  theatre  in  order  to  at- 
tract the  admiring  compassion  of  the  female  part  of  the 
audience?  " 

"What!"  I  cried,  "the  Duchess  of  Cleveland's  Fielding?" 

"  The  same ;  the  best-looking  fellow  of  his  day !  A  sketch 
of  his  history  is  in  the  '  Tatler, '  under  the  name  of  '  Orlando 


DEVEREUX.  109 

the  Fair. '  He  is  terribly  fallen  as  to  fortune  since  the  day 
when  he  drove  about  in  a  ear  like  a  sea-shell,  with  a  dozen 
tall  fellows,  in  the  Austrian  livery,  black  and  yellow,  run- 
ning before  and  behind  him.  You  know  he  claims  relation- 
ship to  the  house  of  Hapsburg.  As  for  the  present,  he  writes 
poems,  makes  love,  is  still  good-natured,  humorous,  and  odd; 
is  rather  unhappily  addicted  to  wine  and  borrowing,  and  rig- 
idly keeps  that  oath  of  the  Carthusians  which  never  suffers 
them  to  carry  any  money  about  them." 

"An  acquaintance  more  likely  to  yield  amusement  than 
profit." 

"  Exactly  so.  He  will  favour  you  with  a  visit  —  to-morrow, 
perhaps,   and  you  will  remember  his  propensities." 

"  Ah !  who  ever  forgets  a  warning  that  relates  to  his  purse !  " 

"  True !  "  said  Tarleton,  sighing.  "  Alas !  my  guinea,  thou 
and  I  have  parted  company  forever !  vale,  vale,  inquit  lolas  !  " 


CHAPTER   V. 

THE   BEAU   IN    HIS    DEN,    AND   A   PHILOSOPHER   DISCOViaiED. 

Mr.  Eielding  having  twice  favoured  me  with  visits,  which 
found  me  from  home,  I  thought  it  right  to  pay  my  respects  to 
him;  accordingly  one  morning  I  repaired  to  his  abode.  It 
was  situated  in  a  street  which  had  been  excessively  the  mode 
some  thirty  years  back;  and  the  house  still  exhibited  a  stately 
and  somewhat  ostentatious  exterior.  I  observed  a  considera- 
ble cluster  of  infantine  ragamuffins  collected  round  the  door, 
and  no  sooner  did  the  portal  open  to  my  summons  than  they 
pressed  forward  in  a  manner  infinitely  more  zealous  than  re- 
spectful. A  servant  in  the  Austrian  livery,  with  a  broad  belt 
round  his  middle,  officiated  as  porter.  "  Look,  look !  "  cried 
one  of  the  youthful  gazers,  "  look  at  the  Beau's  keeper  !  "    This 


110  DEVEREUX. 

imputation  on  his  own  respectability  and  that  of  his  master, 
the  domestic  seemed  by  no  means  to  relish;  for,  muttering 
some  maledictory  menace,  which  I  at  first  took  to  be  German, 
but  which  I  afterwards  found  to  be  Irish,  he  banged  the  door 
in  the  faces  of  the  intrusive  impertinents,  and  said,  in  an 
accent  which  suited  very  ill  with  his  Continental  attire,  — 

"  And  is  it  my  master  you  're  wanting,  Sir  ?  " 

"It  is." 

"  And  you  would  be  after  seeing  him  immadiately  ?  " 

"Eightly  conjectured,  my  sagacious  friend." 

"  Fait  then,  your  honour,  my  master  's  in  bed  with  a  terrible 
fit  of  the  megrims." 

"  Then  you  will  favour  me  by  giving  this  card  to  your  mas- 
ter, and  expressing  my  sorrow  at  his  indisposition." 

Upon  this  the  orange-coloured  lacquey,  very  quietly  read- 
ing the  address  on  the  card,  and  spelling  letter  by  letter  in 
an  audible  mutter,  rejoined, — 

"C  —  o  —  u  (cou)  n  —  t  (unt)  Count,  D  —  e  —  v.  Och,  by 
my  shoul,  and  it 's  Count  Devereux  after  all  I  'm  thinking  ?  " 

"You  think  with  equal  profundity  and  truth." 

"  You  may  well  say  that,  your  honour.  Stip  in  a  bit :  I  '11 
tell  my  master ;  it  is  himself  that  will  see  you  in  a  twinkling ! " 

"  But  you  forget  that  your  master  is  ill  ?  "  said  I. 

"Sorrow  a  bit  for  the  matter  o'  that:  my  master  is  never 
ill  to  a  jontleman," 

And  with  this  assurance  "the  Beau's  keeper"  ushered  me 
up  a  splendid  staircase  into  a  large,  dreary,  faded  apartment, 
and  left  me  to  amuse  myself  with  the  curiosities  within,  while 
he  went  to  perform  a  cure  upon  his  master's  "megrims."  The 
chamber,  suiting  with  the  house  and  the  owner,  looked  like  a 
place  in  the  other  world  set  apart  for  the  reception  of  the 
ghosts  of  departed  furniture.  The  hangings  were  wan  and 
colourless ;  the  chairs  and  sofas  were  most  spiritually  unsub- 
stantial ;  the  mirrors  reflected  all  things  in  a  sepulchral  sea- 
green;  even  a  huge  picture  of  Mr.  Fielding  himself,  placed 
over  the  chimney-piece,  seemed  like  the  apparition  of  a  por- 
trait, so  dim,  watery,  and  indistinct  had  it  been  rendered  by 
neglect  and  damp.     On  a  huge  tomb-like  table  in  the  middle 


DEVEREUX.  Ill 

of  the  room,  lay  two  pencilled  profiles  of  Mr.  Fielding,  a 
pawnbroker's  ticket,  a  pair  of  ruffles,  a  very  little  muff,  an 
immense  broadsword,  a  Wycherley  comb,  a  jackboot,  and  an 
old  plumed  hat;  to  these  were  added  a  cracked  pomatum-pot 
containing  ink,  and  a  scrap  of  paper,  ornamented  with  sun- 
dry paintings  of  hearts  and  torches,  on  which  were  scrawled 
several  lines  in  a  hand  so  large  and  round  that  I  could  not 
avoid  seeing  the  first  verse,  though  I  turned  away  my  eyes  as 
quickly  as  possible;  that  verse,  to  the  best  of  my  memory, 
ran  thus:  "Say,  lovely  Lesbia,  when  thy  swain."  Upon  the 
ground  lay  a  box  of  patches,  a  periwig,  and  two  or  three  well- 
thumbed  books  of  songs.  Such  was  the  reception-room  of 
Beau  Fielding,  one  indifferently  well  calculated  to  exhibit 
the  propensities  of  a  man,  half  bully,  half  fribble ;  a  poet,  a 
fop,  a  fighter,  a  beauty,  a  walking  museum  of  all  odd  hu- 
mours, and  a  living  shadow  of  a  past  renown.  "There  are 
changes  in  wit  as  in  fashion,"  said  Sir  William  Temple,  and 
he  proceeds  to  instance  a  nobleman  who  was  the  greatest 
wit  of  the  court  of  Charles  I.,  and  the  greatest  dullard  in 
that  of  Charles  11.^  But  Heavens!  how  awful  are  the  revolu- 
tions of  coxcombry!  what  a  change  from  Beau  Fielding  the 
Beauty,  to  Beau  Fielding  the  Oddity! 

After  I  had  remained  in  this  apartment  about  ton  minutes, 
the  great  man  made  his  appearance.  He  was  attired  in  a 
dressing-gown  of  the  most  gorgeous  material  and  colour,  but 
so  old  that  it  was  difficult  to  conceive  any  period  of  past  time 
which  it  might  not  have  been  supposed  to  have  witnessed;  a 
little  velvet  cap,  with  a  tarnished  gold  tassel,  surmounted  his 
head,  and  his  nether  limbs  were  sheathed  in  a  pair  of  mili- 
tary boots.  In  person  he  still  retained  the  trace  of  that  ex- 
traordinary symmetry  he  had  once  possessed,  and  his  features 
were  yet  handsome,  though  the  complexion  had  grown  coarse 
and  florid,  and  the  expression  had  settled  into  a  broad,  hardy, 
farcical  mixture  of  effrontery,  humour,  and  conceit. 

But  how  different  his  costume  from  that  of  old!  Where 
was  the  long  wig  with  its  myriad  curls?  the  coat  stiff  with 
golden  lace?  the  diamond  buttons, —  "the  pomp,  pride,  and 
1  The  Earl  of  Norwich. 


112  DEYEREUX. 

circumstance  of  glorious  war?  "  the  glorious  war  Beau  Field- 
ing had  carried  on  throughout  the  female  world, —  finding  in 
every  saloon  a  Blenheim,  in  every  play-house  a  Eamilies  ? 
Alas!  to  what  abyss  of  fate  will  not  the  love  of  notoriety 
bring  men !  to  what  but  the  lust  of  show  do  we  owe  the  mis- 
anthropy of  Timon,  or  the  ruin  of  Beau  Fielding! 

"  By  the  Lord !  "  cried  Mr.  Fielding,  approaching,  and  shak- 
ing me  familiarly  by  the  hand,  "  by  the  Lord,  I  am  delighted 
to  see  thee !  As  I  am  a  soldier,  I  thought  thou  wert  a  spirit, 
invisible  and  incorporeal;  and  as  long  as  I  was  in  that  belief 
I  trembled  for  thy  salvation,  for  I  knew  at  least  that  thou 
wert  not  a  spirit  of  Heaven,  since  thy  door  is  the  very  reverse 
of  the  doors  above,  which  we  are  assured  shall  be  opened  unto 
our  knocking.  But  thou  art  early.  Count;  like  the  ghost  in 
"  Hamlet, "  thou  snuff  est  the  morning  air.  Wilt  thou  not  keep 
out  the  rank  atmosphere  by  a  pint  of  wine  and  a  toast?  " 

"  Many  thanks  to  you,  Mr.  Fielding ;  but  I  have  at  least  one 
property  of  a  ghost,  and  don't  drink  after  daybreak." 

"  Nay,  now,  't  is  a  bad  rule  I  a  villanous  bad  rule,  fit  only 
for  ghosts  and  graybeards.  We  youngsters.  Count,  should 
have  a  more  generous  policy.  Come,  now,  where  didst  thou 
drink  last  night?  has  the  bottle  bequeathed  thee  a  qualm  or  a 
headache,  which  preaches  repentance  and  abstinence  this 
morning  ?  " 

"No,  but  I  visit  my  mistress  this  morning;  would  you  have 
me  smell  of  strong  potations,  and  seem  a  worshipper  of  the 
'  Glass  of  Fashion, '  rather  than  of  '  the  Mould  of  Form  '  ?  Con- 
fess, Mr.  Fielding,  that  the  women  love  not  an  early  tippler, 
and  that  they  expect  sober  and  sweet  kisses  from  a  pair  *of 
youngsters '  like  us." 

"By  the  Lord,"  cried  Mr.  Fielding,  stroking  down  his 
comely  stomach,  "there  is  a  great  show  of  reason  in  thy  ex- 
cuses, but  only  the  show,  not  substance,  my  noble  Count. 
You  know  me,  you  know  my  experience  with  the  women :  I 
would  not  boast,  as  I 'ma  soldier;  but  'tis  something!  nine 
hundred  and  fifty'locks  of  hair  have  I  got  in  my  strong  box, 
under  padlock  and  key;  fifty  within  the  last  week, — true,  on 
my  soul,  —  so  that  I  may  pretend  to  know  a  little  of  the  dear 


DEVEREUX.  113 

creatures;  well,  I  give  thee  my  honour,  Count,  that  they  like 
a  royster;  they  love  a  fellow  who  can  carry  his  six  bottles 
under  a  silken  doublet;  there's  vigour  and  manhood  in  it; 
and,  then,  too,  what  a  power  of  toasts  can  a  six-bottle  man 
drink  to  his  mistress!  Oh,  'tis  your  only  chivalry  now, — 
your  modern  substitute  for  tilt  and  tournament ;  true.  Count, 
as  I  am  a  soldier !  " 

''I  fear  my  Dulcinea  differs  from  the  herd,  then;  for  she 
quarrelled  with  me  for  supping  with  St.  John  three  nights 
ago,  and  —  " 

"St.  John,"  interrupted  Fielding,  cutting  me  off  in  the  be- 
ginning of  a  witticism,  "  St.  John,  famous  fellow,  is  he  not? 
By  the  Lord,  we  will  drink  to  his  administration,  you  in 
chocolate,  I  in  Madeira.  O'Carroll,  you  dog, —  O'Carroll  — 
rogue  —  rascal  —  ass  —  dolt !  " 

"The  same,  your  honour,"  said  the  orange-coloured  lacquey, 
thrusting  in  his  lean  visage. 

"Ay,  the  same  indeed,  thou  anatomized  son  of  Saint  Patrick ; 
why  dost  thou  not  get  fat  ?  Thou  shamest  my  good  living,  and 
thy  belly  is  a  rascally  minister  to  thee,  devouring  all  things 
for  itself,  without  fattening  a  single  member  of  the  body  cor- 
porate. Look  at  me,  you  dog,  am  /thin?  Go  and  get  fat,  or 
I  will  discharge  thee:  by  the  Lord  I  will!  the  sun  shines 
through  thee  like  an  empty  wineglass." 

"And  is  it  upon  your  honour's  lavings  you  would  have  me 
get  fat?"  rejoined  Mr.  O'Carroll,  with  an  air  of  deferential 
inquiry. 

"ISTow,  as  I  live,  thou  art  the  impudentest  varlet!"  cried 
Mr.  Fielding,  stamping  his  foot  on  the  floor,  with  an  angry 
frown. 

"And  is  it  for  talking  of  your  honour's  lavings?  an'  sure 
that's  nothing  at  all,  at  all,"  said  the  valet,  twirling  his 
thumbs  with  expostulating  innocence, 

"Begone,  rascal!"  said  Mr.  Fielding,  "begone;  go  to  the 
Salop,  and  bring  us  a  pint  of  Madeira,  a  toast,  and  a  dish  of 
chocolate." 

"Yes,  your  honour,  in  a  twinkling,"  said  the  valet,  dis- 
appearing. 


114  DEVEREUX. 

"A  sorry  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Fielding,  "but  honest  and  faith- 
ful, and  loves  me  as  well  as  a  saint  loves  gold ;  't  is  his  love 
makes  him  familiar." 

Here  the  door  was  again  opened,  and  the  sharp  face  of  Mr. 
O'Carroll  again  intruded. 

"  How  now,  sirrah !  "  exclaimed  his  master. 

Mr.  O'Carroll,  without  answering  by  voice,  gave  a  gro- 
tesque sort  of  signal  between  a  wink  and  a  beckon.  Mr. 
Fielding  rose  muttering  an  oath,  and  underwent  a  whisper. 
"By  the  Lord,"  cried  he,  seemingly  in  a  furious  passion, 
"  and  thou  hast  not  got  the  bill  cashed  yet,  though  I  told  thee 
twice  to  have  it  done  last  evening?  Have  I  not  my  debts  of 
honour  to  discharge,  and  did  I  not  give  the  last  guinea  I  had 
about  me  for  a  walking  cane  yesterday?  Go  down  to  the  city 
immediately,  sirrah,  and  bring  me  the  change." 

The  valet  again  whispered. 

"Ah,"  resumed  Fielding,  "ah  —  so  far,  you  say,  'tis  true; 
't  is  a  great  way,  and  perhaps  the  Count  can't  wait  till  you 
return.  Prithee  (turning  to  me),  prithee  now,  is  it  not  vexa- 
tious,—  no  change  about  me,  and  my  fool  has  not  cashed  a 
trifling  bill  I  have,  for  a  thousand  or  so,  on  Messrs.  Child! 
and  the  cursed  Salop  puts  not  its  trust  even  in  princes  \  't  is 
its  way;  'Gad  now,  you  have  not  a  guinea  about  you?" 

What  could  I  say?  My  guinea  joined  Tarleton's,  in  a  visit 
to  that  bourne  whence  no  such  traveller  e'er  returned. 

Mr.  O'Carroll  now  vanished  in  earnest,  the  wine  and  the 
chocolate  soon  appeared.  Mr.  Fielding  brightened  up,  re- 
cited his  poetry,  blessed  his  good  fortune,  promised  to  call  on 
me  in  a  day  or  two ;  and  assured  me,  with  a  round  oath,  that 
the  next  time  he  had  the  honour  of  seeing  me,  he  would  treat 
me  with  another  pint  of  Madeira,  exactly  of  the  same  sort. 

I  remember  well  that  it  was  the  evening  of  the  same  day  in 
■which  I  had  paid  this  visit  to  the  redoubted  Mr.  Fielding, 
that,  on  returning  from  a  drum  at  Lady  Hasselton's,  I  entered 
my  anteroom  with  so  silent  a  step,  that  I  did  not  arouse  even 
the  keen  senses  of  Monsieur  Desmarais.  He  was  seated  by 
the  fire,  with  his  head  supported  by  his  hands,  and  intently 
poring  over  a  huge  folio.     I  had  often  observed  that  he  pos-  ■ 


DEVEREUX.  115 

sessed  a  literary  turn,  and  all  the  hours  in  which  he  was  un- 
employed by  me  he  was  wont  to  occupy  with  books.  I  felt 
now,  as  I  stood  still  and  contemplated  his  absorbed  attention 
in  the  contents  of  the  book  before  him,  a  strong  curiosity  to 
know  the  nature  of  his  studies;  and  so  little  did  my  taste 
second  the  routine  of  trifles  in  which  I  had  been  lately  en- 
gaged, that  in  looking  upon  the  earnest  features  of  the  man 
on  which  the  solitary  light  streamed  calm  and  full;  and  im- 
pressed with  the  deep  quiet  and  solitude  of  the  chamber,  to- 
gether with  the  undisturbed  sanctity  of  comfort  presiding 
over  the  small,  bright  hearth,  and  contrasting  what  I  saw 
with  the  brilliant  scene  —  brilliant  with  gaudy,  wearing, 
wearisome  frivolities  —  which  I  had  just  quitted,  a  sensation 
of  envy  at  the  enjoyments  of  my  dependant  entered  my  breast, 
accompanied  with  a  sentiment  resembling  humiliation  at  the 
nature  of  my  own  pursuits.  I  am  generally  thought  a  proud 
man;  but  I  am  never  proud  to  my  inferiors;  nor  can  I  imag- 
ine pride  where  there  is  no  competition.  I  approached  Des- 
marais,  and  said,  in  French, — 

"How  is  this?  why  did  you  not,  like  your  fellows,  take 
advantage  of  my  absence  to  pursue  your  own  amusements? 
They  must  be  dull  indeed  if  they  do  not  hold  out  to  you  more 
tempting  inducements  than  that  colossal  offspring  of  the 
press." 

"Pardon  me,  Sir,"  said  Desmarais,  very  respectfully,  and 
closing  the  book,  "  pardon  me,  I  was  not  aware  of  your  return. 
Will  Monsieur  doff  his  cloak?" 

"No;  shut  the  door,  wheel  round  that  chair,  and  favour 
me  with  a  sight  of  your  book." 

" Monsieur  will  be  angry,  I  fear,"  said  the  valet  (obeying 
the  first  two  orders,  but  hesitating  about  the  third),  "with 
my  course  of  reading:  I  confess  it  is  not  very  compatible 
with  my  station." 

"Ah,  some  long  romance,  the  "Clelia,"  I  suppose, — nay, 
bring  it  hither;  that  is  to  say,  if  it  be  movable  by  the  strength 
of  a  single  man." 

Thus  iirged,  Desmarais  modestly  brought  me  the  book. 
Judge  of  my  surprise  when  I  found  it  was  a  volume  of  Leib- 


116  DEVEREUX. 

nitz,  a  philosopher  then  very  much  the  rage, — because  one 
might  talk  of  him  very  safely,  without  having  read  him.* 
Despite  of  my  surprise,  I  could  not  help  smiling  when  my 
eye  turned  from  the  book  to  the  student.  It  is  impossible  to 
conceive  an  appearance  less  like  a  philosopher's  than  that  of 
Jean  Desmarais.  His  wig  was  of  a  nicety  that  would  not 
have  brooked  the  irregularity  of  a  single  hair;  his  dress  was 
not  preposterous,  for  I  do  not  remember,  among  gentles  or 
valets,  a  more  really  exquisite  taste  than  that  of  Desmarais ; 
but  it  evinced,  in  every  particular,  the  arts  of  the  toilet.  A 
perpetual  smile  sat  upon  his  lips, —  sometimes  it  deepened 
into  a  sneer,  but  that  was  the  only  change  it  ever  experienced; 
an  irresistible  air  of  self-conceit  gave  piquancy  to  his  long, 
marked  features,  small  glittering  eye,  and  withered  cheeks, 
on  which  a  delicate  and  soft  bloom  excited  suspicion  of  arti- 
ficial embellishment.  A  very  fit  frame  of  body  this  for  a 
valet ;  but  I  humbly  opine  a  very  unseemly  one  for  a  student 
of  Leibnitz. 

"  And  what, "  said  I,  after  a  short  pause,  "  is  your  opinion 
of  this  philosopher?  I  understand  that  he  has  just  written  a 
work  ^  above  all  praise  and  comprehension." 

"  It  is  true.  Monsieur,  that  it  is  above  his  own  understand- 
ing. He  knows  not  what  sly  conclusions  may  be  drawn  from 
his  premises ;  but  I  beg  Monsieur's  pardon,  I  shall  be  tedious 
and  intrusive." 

"Not  a  whit!  speak  out,  and  at  length.  So  you  conceive 
that  Leibnitz  makes  ropes  which  others  will  make  into 
ladders?" 

"Exactly  so,"  said  Desmarais;  "all  his  arguments  go  to 
swell  the  sails  of  the  great  philosophical  truth, —  'Xecessity  I  ' 
"We  are  the  things  and  toys  of  Fate,  and  its  everlasting  chain 
compels  even  the  Power  that  creates  as  well  as  the  things 
created." 

"Ha!"  said  I,  who,  though  little  versed  at  that  time  in 
these  metaphysical  subtleties,  had  heard  St.  John  often  speak 

1  Which  is  possibly  the  reason  why  there  are  so  many  disciples  of  Kant  at 
the  present  moment.  —  Ed. 

2  The  "  Theodicsea." 


DEVEREUX.  117 

of  the  strange  doctrine  to  which   Desniarais  referred,  "you 
are,  then,  a  believer  in  the  fatalism  of  S})iuoza?" 

"No,  Monsieur,"  said  Desmarais,  with  a  complacent  smile, 
"my  system  is  my  own:  it  is  composed  of  the  thoughts  of 
others-,  but  my  thoughts  are  the  cords  which  bind  the  various 
sticks  into  a  fagot." 

"Well,"  said  I,  smiling  at  the  man's  conceited  air,  "and 
•what  is  your  main  dogma?  " 

"Our  utter  impotence." 

"Pleasing!     Mean  you  that  we  have  no  free  will?" 

"None." 

"  Why,  then,  you  take  away  the  very  existence  of  vice  and 
virtue;  and,  according  to  you,  we  sin  or  act  well,  not  from 
our  own  accord,  but  because  we  are  compelled  and  preor- 
dained to  it." 

Desmarais'  smile  withered  into  the  grim  sneer  with  which, 
as  I  have  said,  it  was  sometimes  varied. 

"Monsieur's  penetration  is  extreme;  but  shall  I  not  pre- 
pare his  nightly  draught  ?  " 

"No;  answer  me  at  length;  and  tell  me  the  difference  be- 
tween good  and  ill,  if  we  are  compelled  by  Necessity  to 
either." 

Desmarais  hemmed,  and  began.  Despite  of  his  caution, 
the  coxcomb  loved  to  hear  himself  talk,  and  he  talked,  there- 
fore, to  the  following  purpose :  — 

"  Liberty  is  a  thing  impossible !  Can  you  will  a  single  ac- 
tion, however  simple,  independent  of  your  organization, —  in- 
dependent of  the  organization  of  others, —  indej^endent  of  the 
order  of  things  past, —  independent  of  the  order  of  things  to 
come?  You  cannot.  But  if  not  independent,  you  are  depend- 
ent; if  dependent,  where  is  your  liberty?  where  your  freedom 
of  will?  Education  disposes  our  characters:  can  you  control 
your  own  education,  begun  at  the  hour  of  birth?  You  cannot. 
Our  character,  joined  to  the  conduct  of  others,  disposes  of  our 
happiness,  our  sorrow,  our  crime,  our  virtue.  Can  you  control 
your  character?  We  have  already  seen  that  you  cannot.  Can 
you  control  the  conduct  of  others, —  others  perhaps  whom  you 
have  never  seen,  but  who  may  ruin  you  at  a  word;  a  despot, 


118  DEVEREUX. 

for  instance,  or  a  warrior?  You  cannot.  What  remains?  that  if 
we  cannot  choose  our  characters,  nor  our  fates,  we  cannot  be  ac- 
countable for  either.  If  you  are  a  good  man,  you  are  a  lucky 
man ;  but  you  are  not  to  be  praised  for  what  you  could  not  help. 
If  you  are  a  bad  man,  you  are  an  unfortunate  one ;  but  you 
are  not  to  be  execrated  for  what  you  could  not  prevent."  ^ 

"  Then,  most  wise  Desmarais,  if  you  steal  this  diamond  loop 
from  my  hat,  you  are  only  an  unlucky  man,  not  a  guilty  one, 
and  worthy  of  my  sympathy,  not  anger?" 

"Exactly  so;  but  you  must  hang  me  for  it.  You  cannot 
control  events,  but  you  can  modify  man.  Education,  law, 
adversity,  prosperity,  correction,  praise,  modify  him, — with- 
out his  choice,  and  sometimes  without  his  perception.  But 
once  acknowledge  Necessity,  and  evil  passions  cease;  you 
may  punish,  you  may  destroy  others,  if  for  the  safety  and 
good  of  the  commonwealth;  but  motives  for  doing  so  cease  to 
be  private :  you  can  have  no  personal  hatred  to  men  for  com- 
mitting actions  which  they  were  irresistibly  compelled  to 
commit." 

I  felt  that,  however  I  might  listen  to  and  dislike  these  sen- 
timents, it  would  not  do  for  the  master  to  argue  with  the  do- 
mestic, especially  when  there  was  a  chance  that  he  might 
have  the  worst  of  it.  And  so  I  was  suddenly  seized  with  a  fit 
of  sleepiness,  which  broke  off  our  conversation.  Meanwhile 
I  inly  resolved,  in  my  own  mind,  to  take  the  first  opportu- 
nity of  discharging  a  valet  who  saw  no  difference  between 
good  and  evil,  but  that  of  luck;  and  who,  by  the  irresistible 
compulsion  of  Necessity,  might  some  day  or  other  have  the 
involuntary  misfortune  to  cut  the  throat  of  his  master ! 

I  did  not,  however,  carry  this  unphilosophical  resolution 
into  effect.  Indeed,  the  rogue,  doubting  perhaps  the  nature 
of  the  impression  he  had  made  on  me,  redoubled  so  zealously 
his  efforts  to  please  me  in  the  science  of  his  profession  that  I 
could  not  determine  upon  relinquishing  such  a  treasure  for  a 
speculative  opinion,  and  I  was  too  much  accustomed  to  laugh 
at  my  Sosia  to  believe  there  could  be  any  reason  to  fear  him. 

^  Whatever  pretensions  Monsieur  Desmarais  may  have  had  to  originality, 
this  tissue  of  opinions  is  as  old  as  philosophy  itself.  —  Ed. 


DEVEREUX.  119 


CHAPTER   VI. 

A   UNIVERSAL   GENIUS. PERICLES    TURNED    BARBER. NAMES 

OF    BEAUTIES   IN   171-. THE   TOASTS   OF    THE    KIT-CAT  CLUB. 

As  I  was  riding  with  Tarleton  towards  Chelsea,  one  day, 
he  asked  me  if  I  had  ever  seen  the  celebrated  Mr.  Salter. 
"No,"  said  I,  "but  I  heard  Steele  talk  of  him  the  other  night 
at  Wills's.     He  is  an  antiquarian  and  a  barber,  is  he  not?" 

"Yes,  a  shaving  virtuoso;  really  a  comical  and  strange 
character,  and  has  oddities  enough  to  compensate  one  for  the 
debasement  of  talking  with  a  man  in  his  rank." 

"Let  us  go  to  him  forthwith,"  said  I,  spurring  my  horse 
into  a  canter. 

^'Quodjjetis  hie  est,"  cried  Tarleton,  "there  is  his  house." 
And  my  companion  pointed  to  a  coffee-house. 

"What!  "  said  I,  "does  he  draw  wine  as  well  as  teeth?" 

"To  be  sure:  Don  Saltero  is  a  universal  genius.  Let  us 
dismount." 

Consigning  our  horses  to  the  care  of  our  grooms,  we  marched 
into  the  strangest-looking  place  I  ever  had  the  good  fortune 
to  behold.  A  long  narrow  coffee-room  was  furnished  with  all 
manner  of  things  that,  belonging  neither  to  heaven,  earth, 
nor  the  water  under  the  earth,  the  redoubted  Saltero  might 
well  worship  without  incurring  the  crime  of  idolatry.  The 
first  thing  that  greeted  my  eyes  was  a  bull's  head,  with  a 
most  ferocious  pair  of  vulture's  wings  on  its  neck.  While  I 
was  surveying  this,  I  felt  something  touch  my  hat;  I  looked 
up  and  discovered  an  immense  alligator  swinging  from  the 
ceiling,  and  fixing  a  monstrous  pair  of  glass  eyes  upon  me. 
A  thing  which  seemed  to  me  like  an  immense  shoe,  upon  a 
nearer  approach  expanded  itself  into  an  Indian  canoe ;  and  a 
most  hideous  spectre  with  mummy  skin,  and  glittering  teeth, 
that  made  my  blood  run  cold,  was  labelled,  "  Beautiful  speci- 
men of  a  Calmuc  Tartar." 


120  DEVEREUX. 

While  lost  in  wonder,  I  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  apart- 
ment, up  walks  a  little  man  as  lean  as  a  miser,  and  says  to 
me,  rubbing  his  hands, — 

"Wonderful,  Sir,  is  it  not?" 

"Wonderful,  indeed,  Don!"  said  Tarleton;  "you  look  like 
a  Chinese  Adam  surrounded  by  a  Japanese  creation. " 

"He,  he,  he.  Sir,  you  have  so  pleasant  a  vein,"  said  the 
little  Don,  in  a  sharp  shrill  voice.  "But  it  has  been  all 
done.  Sir,  by  one  man;  all  of  it  collected  by  me,  simple  as  I 
stand." 

"Simple,  indeed,"  quoth  Tarleton;  "and  how  gets  on  the 
fiddle?" 

"Bravely,  Sir,  bravely;  shall  I  play  you  a  tune?" 

"No,  no,  my  good  Don;  another  time." 

"Nay,  Sir,  nay,"  cried  the  antiquarian,  "suffer  me  to  wel- 
come your  arrival  properly." 

And,  forthwith  disappearing,  he  returned  in  an  instant 
with  a  marvellously  ill-favoured  old  fiddle.  Throwing  a  loen- 
seroso  air  into  his  thin  cheeks,  our  Don  then  began  a  few  pre- 
liminary thrummings,  which  set  my  teeth  on  edge,  and  made 
Tarleton  put  both  hands  to  his  ears.  Three  sober-looking 
citizens,  who  had  just  sat  themselves  down  to  pipes  and  the 
journal,  started  to  their  feet  like  so  many  pieces  of  clockwork ; 
but  no  sooner  had  Don  Saltero,  with  a  derjage  air  of  graceful 
melancholy,  actually  launched  into  what  he  was  pleased  to 
term  a  tune,  than  a  universal  irritation  of  nerves  seized  the 
whole  company.  At  the  first  overture,  the  three  citizens 
swore  and  cursed,  at  the  second  division  of  the  tune,  they 
seized  their  hats,  at  the  third  they  vanished.  As  for  me,  I 
found  all  my  limbs  twitching  as  if  they  were  dancing  to  St. 
Vitus's  music;  the  very  drawers  disappeared;  the  alligator 
itself  twirled  round,  as  if  revivified  by  so  harsh  an  experi- 
ment on  the  nervous  system;  and  I  verily  believe  the  whole 
museum,  bull,  wings,  Indian  canoe,  and  Calmuc  Tartar,  would 
have  been  set  into  motion  by  this  new  Orpheus,  had  not  Tarle- 
ton, in  a  paroxysm  of  rage,  seized  him  by  the  tail  of  the  coat, 
and  whirled  him  round,  fiddle  and  all,  with  such  velocity 
that  the   poor    musician   lost    his   equilibrium,    and    falling 


DEVEREUX.  1 21 

against  a  row  of  Chinese  monsters,  brought  the  whole  set  to 
the  ground,  where  he  lay  covered  by  the  wrecks  that  accom- 
panied his  overthrow,  screaming  and  struggling,  and  grasping 
his  fiddle,  which  every  now  and  then,  touched  involuntarily 
by  his  fingers,  uttered  a  dismal  squeak,  as  if  sympathizing  in 
the  disaster  it  had  caused,  until  the  drawer  ran  in,  and,  rais- 
ing the  unhappy  antiquarian,  placed  him  on  a  great  chair. 

"0  Lord!"  groaned  Don  Saltero,  "O  Lord!  my  monsters 
—  my  monsters  —  the  pagoda  —  the  mandarin,  and  the  idol  — 
where  are  they?  —  broken  —  ruined  —  annihilated!  " 

"Xo,  Sir;  all  safe,  Sir,"  said  ihe  drawer,  a  smart,  small, 
smug,  pert  man;  "put  'em  down  in  the  bill,  nevertheless,  Sir. 
Is  it  Alderman  Atkins,  Sir,  or  Mr.  Higgins?" 

"Pooh,"  said  Tarleton,  "bring  me  some  lemonade;  send 
the  pagoda  to  the  bricklayer,  the  mandarin  to  the  surgeon, 
and  the  idol  to  the  Papist  over  the  way !  There  's  a  guinea 
to  pay  for  their  carriage.     How  are  you,   Don?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Tarleton,  Mr.  Tarleton!  how  coxild  you  be  so 
cruel?" 

"The  nature  of  things  demanded  it,  my  good  Don.  Did  I 
not  call  you  a  Chinese  Adam?  and  how  could  you  bear  that 
name  without  undergoing  the  fall?" 

"Oh,  Sir,  this  is  no  jesting  matter, — broke  the  railing  of 
my  pagoda,  bruised  my  arm,  cracked  my  fiddle,  and  cut  me 
off  in  the  middle  of  that  beautiful  air!  —  no  jesting  matter." 

"Come,  Mr.  Salter,"  said  I,  "'tis  very  true!  but  cheer  up. 
'  The  gods, '  says  Seneca,  '  look  with  pleasure  on  a  great  man 
falling  with  the  statesmen,  the  temples,  and  the  divinities  of 
his  country ; '  all  of  which,  mandarin,  pagoda,  and  idol,  ac- 
companied your  fall.  Let  us  have  a  bottle  of  your  best  wine, 
and  the  honour  of  your  company  to  drink  it. " 

"  No,  Count,  no, "  said  Tarleton,  haughtily ;  "  we  can  drink  not 
with  the  Don;  but  we  '11  have  the  wine,  and  he  shall  drink  it. 
Meanwhile,  Don,  tell  us  what  possible  combination  of  circum- 
stances made  thee  fiddler,  barber,  anatomist,  and  virtuoso !  " 

Don  Saltero  loved  fiddling  better  than  anything  in  the  world, 
but  next  to  fiddling  he  loved  talking.  So  being  satisfied  that 
he  should  be  reimbursed  for  his  pagoda,  and  fortifying  him- 


122  DEVEREUX. 

self  with  a  glass  or  two  of  his  own  wine,  he  yielded  to  Tarle- 
ton's  desire,  and  told  us  his  history.  I  believe  it  was  very 
entertaining  to  the  good  barber,  but  Tarleton  and  I  saw  noth- 
ing extraordinary  in  it;  and  long  before  it  was  over,  we 
wished  him  an  excellent  good  day,  and  a  new  race  of  Chinese 
monsters. 

That  evening  we  were  engaged  at  the  Kit-Cat  Club,  for 
though  I  was  opposed  to  the  politics  of  its  members,  they  ad- 
mitted me  on  account  of  my  literary  pretensions.  Halifax 
was  there,  and  I  commended  the  poet  to  his  protection.  We 
were  very  gay,  and  Halifax  favoured  us  with  three  new  toasts 
by  himself.  0  Venus !  what  beauties  we  made,  and  what  char- 
acters we  murdered !  Never  was  there  so  important  a  synod 
to  the  female  world  as  the  gods  of  the  Kit-Cat  Club.  Alas ! 
I  am  writing  for  the  children  of  an  after  age,  to  whom  the 
very  names  of  those  who  made  the  blood  of  their  ancestors 
leap  within  theii  veins  will  be  unknown.  What  cheek  will 
colour  at  the  name  of  Carlisle?  What  hand  will  tremble  as 
it  touches  the  paper  inscribed  by  that  of  Brudenel?  The 
graceful  Godolphin,  the  sparkling  enchantment  of  Harper, 
the  divine  voice  of  Claverine,  the  gentle  and  bashful  Bridge- 
water,  the  damask  cheek  and  ruby  lips  of  the  Hebe  Manches- 
ter,—  what  will  these  be  to  the  race  for  whom  alone  these 
pages  are  penned?  This  history  is  a  union  of  strange  con- 
trasts! like  the  tree  of  the  Sun,  described  by  Marco  Polo, 
which  was  green  when  approached  on  one  side,  but  white 
when  perceived  on  the  other :  to  me  it  is  clothed  in  the  ver- 
dure and  spring  of  the  existing  time;  to  the  reader  it  comes 
covered  with  the  hoariness  and  wanness  of  the  Past ! 


DEVEREUX.  123 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A  DIALOGUE  OF  SENTIMENT  SUCCEEDED  BY  THE  SKETCH  OF  A 
CHARACTER,  IN  WHOSE  EYES  SENTIMENT  WAS  TO  WISE  MEN 
WHAT  RELIGION  IS  TO  FOOLS;  NAMELY,  A  SUBJECT  OF 
RIDICULE. 

St.  John  was  now  in  power,  and  in  the  full  flush  of  his 
many  ambitious  and  restless  schemes.  I  saw  as  much  of  him 
as  the  high  rank  he  held  in  the  state,  and  the  consequent  busi- 
ness with  which  he  was  oppressed,  would  suffer  me,  —  me, 
who  was  prevented  by  religion  from  actively  embracing  any  po- 
litical party,  and  who,  therefore,  though  inclined  to  Toryism, 
associated  pretty  equally  with  all.  St.  John  and  myself  formed 
a  great  friendship  for  each  other,  a  friendship  which  no  after 
change  or  chance  could  efface,  but  which  exists,  strengthened 
and  mellowed  by  time,  at  the  very  hour  in  which  I  write. 

One  evening  he  sent  to  tell  me  he  should  be  alone,  if  I 
would  sup  with  him;  accordingly  I  repaired  to  his  house. 
He  was  walking  up  and  down  the  room  with  uneven  and  rapid 
steps,  and  his  countenance  was  flushed  with  an  expression  of 
joy  and  triumph,  very  rare  to  the  thoughtful  and  earnest  calm 
which  it  usually  wore.  "Congratulate  me,  Devereux,"  said 
he,  seizing  me  eagerly  by  the  hand,  "  congratulate  me !  " 

"For  what?" 

"  Ay,  true :  you  are  not  yet  a  politician ;  you  cannot  yet  tell 
how  dear  —  how  inexpressibly  dear  to  a  politician  —  is  a  mo- 
mentary and  petty  victory, — but  —  if  I  were  Prime  Minister 
of  this  country,  what  would  you  say?" 

"  That  you  could  bear  the  duty  better  than  any  man  living ; 
but  remember  Harley  is  in  the  way." 

"Ah,  there's  the  rub,"  said  St.  John,  slowly,  and  the  ex- 
pression of  his  face  again  changed  from  triumph  to  thought- 
fulness  ;  "  but  this  is  a  subject  not  to  your  taste :  let  us  choose 


124  DEVEREUX. 

another."  And  flinging  himself  into  a  chair,  this  singular 
man,  who  prided  himself  on  suiting  his  conversation  to  every 
one,  began  conversing  with  me  upon  the  lighter  topics  of  the 
day;  these  we  soon  exhausted,  and  at  last  we  settled  upon 
that  of  love  and  women. 

"I  own,"  said  I,  "that,  in  this  respect,  pleasure  has  disap- 
pointed as  well  as  wearied  me.  I  have  longed  for  some  better 
object  of  worship  than  the  trifler  of  fashion,  or  the  yet  more 
ignoble  minion  of  the  senses.  I  ask  a  vent  for  enthusiasm, 
for  devotion,  for  romance,  for  a  thousand  subtle  and  secret 
streams  of  unuttered  and  unutterable  feeling.  I  often  think 
that  I  bear  within  me  the  desire  and  the  sentiment  of  poetry, 
though  I  enjoy  not  its  faculty  of  expression;  and  that  that 
desire  and  that  sentiment,  denied  legitimate  egress,  centre 
and  shrink  into  one  absorbing  passion, —  which  is  the  want 
of  love.  Where  am  I  to  satisfy  this  want?  I  look  round 
these  great  circles  of  gayety  which  we  term  the  world;  I 
send  forth  my  heart  as  a  wanderer  over  their  regions  and  re- 
cesses, and  it  returns,  sated  and  palled  and  languid,  to  myself 
again." 

"  You  express  a  common  want  in  every  less  worldly  or  more 
morbid  nature, "  said  St.  John ;  "  a  want  which  I  myself  have 
experienced,  and  if  I  had  never  felt  it,  I  should  never,  per- 
haps, have  turned  to  ambition  to  console  or  to  engross  me. 
But  do  not  flatter  yourself  that  the  want  will  ever  be  fulfilled. 
Nature  places  us  alone  in  this  hospitable  world,  and  no  heart 
is  cast  in  a  similar  mould  to  that  which  we  bear  within  us. 
We  pine  for  sympathy;  we  make  to  ourselves  a  creation  of 
ideal  beauties,  in  which  we  expect  to  find  it :  but  the  creation 
has  no  reality;  it  is  the  mind's  phantasma  which  the  mind 
adores ;  and  it  is  because  the  phantasma  can  have  no  actual 
being  that  the  mind  despairs.  Throughout  life,  from  the 
cradle  to  the  grave,  it  is  no  real  living  thing  which  we  de- 
mand; it  is  the  realization  of  the  idea  we  have  formed  within 
us,  and  which,  as  we  are  not  gods,  we  can  never  call  into  ex- 
istence. We  are  enamoured  of  the  statue  ourselves  have 
graven;  but,  unlike  the  statue  of  the  Cyprian,  it  kindles  not 
to  our  homage  nor  melts  to  our  embraces." 


DEVEREUX.  125 

"I  believe  you,"  said  I;  "but  it  is  hard  to  undeceive  our- 
selves. The  heart  is  the  most  credulous  of  all  fanatics,  and 
its  ruling  passion  the  most  enduring  of  all  superstitions. 
Oh!  what  can  tear  from  us,  to  the  last,  the  hope,  the  desire, 
the  yearning  for  some  bosom  which,  while  it  mirrors  our  own, 
parts  not  with  the  reflection!  I  have  read  that,  in  the  very 
hour  and  instant  of  our  birth,  one  exactly  similar  to  ourselves, 
in  spirit  and  form,  is  born  also,  and  that  a  secret  and  unintel- 
ligible sympathy  preserves  that  likeness,  even  through  the 
vicissitudes  of  fortune  and  circumstance,  until,  in  the  same 
point  of  time,  the  two  beings  are  resolved  once  more  into  the 
elements  of  earth:  confess  that  there  is  something  welcome, 
though  unfounded  in  the  fancy,  and  that  there  are  few  of  the 
substances  of  worldly  honour  which  one  would  not  renounce, 
to  possess,  in  the  closest  and  fondest  of  all  relations,  this 
shadow  of  ourselves !  " 

"Alas!"  said  St.  John,  "the  possession,  like  all  earthly 
blessings,  carries  within  it  its  own  principle  of  corruption. 
The  deadliest  foe  to  love  is  not  change  nor  misfortune  nor 
jealousy  nor  wrath,  nor  anything  that  flows  from  passion  or 
emanates  from  fortune;  the  deadliest  foe  to  it  is  custom! 
"With  custom  die  away  the  delusions  and  the  mysteries  which 
encircle  it;  leaf  after  leaf,  in  the  green  poetry  on  which  its 
beauty  depends,  droops  and  withers,  till  nothing  but  the  bare 
and  rude  trunk  is  left.  With  all  passion  the  soul  demands 
something  unexpressed,  some  vague  recess  to  explore  or  to 
marvel  upon, —  some  veil  upon  the  mental  as  well  as  the  cor- 
poreal deity.  Custom  leaves  nothing  to  romance,  and  often 
biit  little  to  respect.  The  whole  character  is  bared  before  us 
like  a  plain,  and  the  heart's  eye  grows  wearied  with  the 
sameness  of  the  survey.  And  to  weariness  succeeds  distaste, 
and  to  distaste  one  of  the  myriad  shapes  of  the  Proteus  Aver- 
sion; so  that  the  passion  we  would  make  the  rarest  of  treas- 
ures fritters  down  to  a  very  instance  of  the  commonest  of 
proverbs,  —  and  out  of  familiarity  cometh  indeed  contempt!  " 

"And  are  we,  then,"  said  I,  "forever  to  forego  the  most 
delicious  of  our  dreams?  Are  we  to  consider  love  as  an  entire 
delusion,  and  to  reconcile  ourselves  to  an  eternal  solitude  of 


126  DEVEREUX. 

heart?  What,  then,  shall  fill  the  crying  and  unappeasable 
void  of  our  souls?  What  shall  become  of  those  mighty  sources 
of  tenderness  which,  refused  all  channel  in  the  rocky  soil  of 
the  world,  must  have  an  outlet  elsewhere  or  stagnate  into 
torpor?  " 

"Our  passions,"  said  St.  John,  "are  restless,  and  will  make 
each  experiment  in  their  power,  though  vanity  be  the  result 
of  all.  Disappointed  in  love,  they  yearn  towards  ambition; 
and  the  object  of  ambition,  unlike  that  of  love,  never  being 
wholly  possessed,  ambition  is  the  more  durable  passion  of  the 
two.  But  sooner  or  later  even  that  and  all  passions  are  sated 
at  last;  and  when  wearied  of  too  wide  a  flight  we  limit  our 
excursions,  and  looking  round  us  discover  the  narrow  bounds 
of  our  proper  end,  we  grow  satisfied  with  the  loss  of  rapture 
if  we  can  partake  of  enjoyment;  and  the  experience  which 
seemed  at  first  so  bitterly  to  betray  us  becomes  our  most  real 
benefactor,  and  ultimately  leads  us  to  content.  For  it  is  the 
excess  and  not  the  nature  of  our  passions  which  is  perishable. 
Like  the  trees  which  grew  by  the  tomb  of  Protesilaus,  the 
passions  flourish  till  they  reach  a  certain  height,  but  no  sooner 
is  that  height  attained  than  they  wither  away." 

Before  I  could  reply,  our  conversation  received  an  abrupt 
and  complete  interruption  for  the  night.  The  door  was 
thrown  open,  and  a  man,  pushing  aside  the  servant  with  a 
rude  and  yet  a  dignified  air,  entered  the  room  unannounced, 
and  with  the  most  perfect  disregard  to  ceremony  — 

"How  d'ye  do,  Mr.  St.  John,"  said  he, —  "how  d'ye  do? 
—  Pretty  sort  of  a  day  we ' ve  had.  Lucky  to  find  you  at 
home, — that  is  to  say  if  you  will  give  me  some  broiled  oys- 
ters and  champagne  for  supper." 

"With  all  my  heart.  Doctor,"  said  St.  John,  changing  his 
manner  at  once  from  the  pensive  to  an  easy  and  somewhat 
brusque  familiarity, —  "with  all  my  heart;  but  I  am  glad  to 
hear  you  are  a  convert  to  champagne:  j^ou  spent  a  whole 
evening  last  week  in  endeavouring  to  dissuade  me  from  the 
sparkling  sin." 

"Pish!  I  had  suffered  the  day  before  from  it;  so,  like  a 
true  Old  Bailey  penitent,  I  preached  up  conversion  to  others, 


DEVEREUX.  127 

not  from  a  desire  of  their  welfare,  but  a  plaguy  sore  feeling 
for  my  own  misfortune.  Where  did  you  dine  to-day?  At 
home !  Oh !  the  devil !  I  starved  on  three  courses  at  the  Duke 
of  Orraond's." 

"Aha!     Honest  Matt  was  there?  " 

"Yes,  to  my  cost.  He  borrowed  a  shilling  of  me  for  a 
chair.  Hang  this  weather,  it  costs  me  seven  shillings  a  day 
for  coach-fare,  besides  my  paying  the  fares  of  all  my  poor 
brother  parsons,  who  come  over  from  Ireland  to  solicit  my 
patronage  for  a  bishopric,  and  end  by  borrowing  half-a-crown 
in  the  meanwhile.  But  Matt  Prior  will  pay  me  again,  I 
suppose,   out  of  the  public  money?" 

"To  be  sure,  if  Chloe  does  not  ruin  him  first." 

"Hang  the  slut:  don't  talk  of  her.  How  Prior  rails  against 
his  place !  ^  He  says  the  excise  spoils  his  wit,  and  that  the 
only  rhymes  he  ever  dreams  of  now-a-days  are  'docket  and 
cocket. '  " 

"Ha,  ha!  we  must  do  something  better  for  Matt,  —  make 
him  a  bishop  or  an  ambassador.  But  pardon  me,  Count,  I 
have  not  yet  made  known  to  you  the  most  courted,  authorita- 
tive, impertinent,  clever,  independent,  haughty,  delightful, 
troublesome  parson  of  the  age:  do  homage  to  Dr.  Swift. 
Doctor,  be  merciful  to  my  particular  friend,  Count  Devereux." 
Drawing  himself  up,  with  a  manner  which  contrasted  his 
previous  one  strongly  enough.  Dr.  Swift  saluted  me  with  a 
dignity  which  might  even  be  called  polished,  and  which  cer- 
tainly showed  that  however  he  might  prefer,  as  his  usual  de- 
meanour, an  air  of  negligence  and  semi-rudeness,  he  had 
profited  sufficiently  by  his  acquaintance  with  the  great  to 
equal  them  in  the  external  graces,  supposed  to  be  peculiar  to 
their  order,  whenever  it  suited  his  inclination.  In  person 
Swift  is  much  above  the  middle  height,  strongly  built,  and 
with  a  remarkably  fine  outline  of  throat  and  chest;  his  front 
face  is  certainly  displeasing,  though  far  from  uncomely;  but 
the  clear  chiselling  of  the  nose,  the  curved  upper  lip,  the  full, 
round  Roman  chin,  the  hanging  brow,  and  the  resolute  deci- 
sion, stamped  upon  the  whole  expression  of  the  large  fore- 
1  In  the  Customs. 


128  DEVEREUX. 

head,  and  the  clear  blue  eye,  make  his  profile  one  of  the  most 
striking  I  ever  saw.  He  honom-ed  me,  to  my  great  surprise, 
with  a  fine  speech  and  a  compliment;  and  then,  with  a  look, 
which  menaced  to  St.  John  the  retort  that  ensued,  he  added: 
"And  I  shall  always  be  glad  to  think  that  I  owe  your  ac- 
quaintance to  Mr.  Secretary  St.  John,  who,  if  he  talked  less 
about  operas  and  singers, — thought  less  about  Alcibiades  and 
Pericles, —  if  he  never  complained  of  the  load  of  business  not 
being  suited  to  his  temper,  at  the  very  moment  he  had  been 
working,  like  Gumdragon,  to  get  the  said  load  upon  his 
shoulders ;  and  if  he  persuaded  one  of  his  sincerity  being  as 
great  as  his  genius,  —  would  appear  to  all  time  as  adorned 
with  the  choicest  gifts  that  Heaven  has  yet  thought  fit  to  be- 
stow on  the  children  of  men.  Prithee  now,  Mr.  Sec,  when 
shall  we  have  the  oysters?  Will  you  be  merry  to-night, 
Count?" 

"Certainly;  if  one  may  find  absolution  for  the  champagne." 

"I'll  absolve  you,  with  a  vengeance,  on  condition  that 
you  '11  walk  home  with  me,  and  protect  the  poor  parson  from 
the  Mohawks.  Faith,  they  ran  young  Davenant's  chair 
through  with  a  sword,  t'  other  night.  I  hear  they  have  sworn 
to  make  daylight  through  my  Tory  cassock, —  all  Whigs  you 
know.  Count  Devereux,  nasty,  dangerous  animals,  how  I  hate 
them !  they  cost  me  five-and-sixpence  a  week  in  chairs  to  avoid 
them." 

"Never  mind,  Doctor,  I'll  send  my  servants  home  with 
you,"  said  St,  John. 

"Ay,  a  nice  way  of  mending  the  matter  —  that 's  curing  the 
itch  by  scratching  the  skin  off.  I  could  not  give  your  tall 
fellows  less  than  a  crown  a-piece,  and  I  could  buy  off  the 
bloodiest  Mohawk  in  the  kingdom,  if  he  's  a  Whig,  for  half 
that  sum.  But,  thank  Heaven,  the  supper  is  ready." 
/  And  to  supper  we  went.  The  oysters  and  champagne  seemed 
to  exhilarate,  if  it  did  not  refine,  the  Doctor's  wit.  St.  John 
was  unusually  brilliant.  I  myself  caught  the  infection  of 
their  humour,  and  contributed  my  quota  to  the  common  stock 
of  jest  and  repartee;  and  that  evening,  spent  with  the  two 
most  extraordinary  men  of  the  age,  had  in  it  more  of  broad 


DEVEREUX.  129 

and  familiar  mirth  than  any  I  have  ever  wasted  in  the  com- 
pany of  the  youngest  and  noisiest  disciples  of  the  bowl  and 
its  concomitants.  Even  amidst  all  the  coarse  ore  of  Swift's 
conversation,  the  diamond  perpetually  broke  out;  his  vulgar- 
ity was  never  that  of  a  vulgar  mind.  Pity  that,  while  he 
condemned  St.  John's  over  affectation  of  the  grace  of  life,  he 
never  jDerceived  that  his  own  affectation  of  coarseness  and 
brutality  was  to  the  full  as  unworthy  of  the  simplicity  of  in- 
tellect; ^  and  that  the  aversion  to  cant,  which  was  the  strong- 
est characteristic  of  his  mind,  led  him  into  the  very  faults  he 
despised,  only  through  a  more  displeasing  and  offensive  road. 
That  same  aversion  to  cant  is,  by  the  way,  the  greatest  and 
most  prevalent  enemy  to  the  reputation  of  high  and  of  strong 
minds;  and  in  judging  Swift's  character  in  especial,  we  should 
always  bear  it  in  recollection.  This  aversion  —  the  very  an- 
tipodes to  hypocrisy  —  leads  men  not  only  to  disclaim  the 
virtues  they  have,  but  to  pretend  to  the  vices  they  have  not. 
Foolish  trick  of   disguised  vanity!    the  world,  alas,  readily 

1  It  has  been  said  that  Swift  was  only  coarse  in  his  later  years,  and,  with 
a  curious  ignorance  both  of  fact  and  of  character,  that  Pope  was  the  cause  of 
the  Dean's  grossness  of  taste.  There  is  no  doubt  that  he  grew  coarser  with 
age;  but  there  is  also  no  doubt  that,  graceful  and  dignified  as  that  great 
genius  could  be  when  he  pleased,  he  affected  at  a  period  earlier  than  the  one 
in  which  he  is  now  introduced,  to  be  coarse  both  in  speech  and  manner.  I 
seize  upon  this  opportunity,  mal  a  propos  as  it  is,  to  observe  that  Swift's  pre- 
ference of  Harley  to  St.  John  is  by  no  means  so  certain  as  writers  have  been 
pleased  generally  to  assert.  Warton  has  already  noted  a  passage  in  one  of 
Swift's  letters  to  Bolingbroke,  to  which  I  will  beg  to  call  the  reader's 
attention. 

"It  is  you  iccre.  my  hero,  but  the  other  (Lord  Oxford)  never  iras ;  yet  if  he 
were,  it  was  your  own  fault,  who  taught  me  to  love  him,  and  often  vindicated 
him,  in  the  beginning  of  your  ministry,  from  my  accusations.  But  I  granted 
he  had  the  greatest  inequalities  of  any  man  alive ;  and  his  whole  scene  was 
fifty  times  more  a  what-d'ye-call-it  than  yours ;  for  I  declare  yours  was  unie, 
and  I  wish  you  would  so  order  it  that  the  world  may  be  as  wise  as  I  upon  that 
article." 

I  have  to  apologize  for  introducing  this  quotation,  which  I  have  done 
because  (and  I  entreat  the  reader  to  remember  this)  I  observe  that  Count 
Devereux  always  speaks  of  Lord  Bolingbroke  as  he  was  spoken  of  by  the 
eminent  men  of  that  day,  —  not  as  he  is  now  rated  by  the  judgment  of 
posterity.  —  Ed. 

9 


130  DEVEREUX. 

believes  them!  Like  Justice  Overdo,  in  the  garb  of  poor 
Arthur  of  Bradley,  they  may  deem  it  a  virtue  to  have  assumed 
.the  disguise ;  but  they  must  not  wonder  if  the  sham  Arthur 
is  taken  for  the  real,  beaten  as  a  vagabond,  and  set  in  the 
stocks  as  a  rogue! 


CHAPTER   \^IL 

LIGHTLY   WON,    LIGHTLY    LOST. A    DIALOGUE    OF    EQUAL    IN- 
STRUCTION    AND     AMUSEMENT. A    VISIT     TO    SIR    GODFREY 

KNELLER. 

One  morning  Tarleton  breakfasted  with  me.  "  I  don't  see 
the  little  page,"  said  he,  "who  was  always  in  attendance  in 
your  anteroom;  what  the  deuce  has  become  of  him?" 

"  You  must  ask  his  mistress ;  she  has  quarrelled  with  me, 
and  withdrawn  both  her  favour  and  her  messenger." 

"What!  the  Lady  Hasselton  quarrelled  with  j*ou!  D'lahle! 
Wherefore?  " 

"Because  I  am  not  enough  of  the  'pretty  fellow; '  am  tired 
of  carrying  hood  and  scarf,  and  sitting  behind  her  chair 
through  five  long  acts  of  a  dull  play ;  because  I  disappointed 
her  in  not  searching  for  her  at  every  drum  and  quadrille  party; 
because  I  admired  not  her  monkey;  and  because  I  broke  a 
teapot  with  a  toad  for  a  cover." 

"And  is  not  that  enough?"  cried  Tarleton.  "Heavens! 
what  a  black  bead-roll  of  offences;  Mrs.  Merton  would  have 
discarded  me  for  one  of  them.  However,  thy  account  has 
removed  my  surprise ;  I  heard  her  praise  thee  the  other  day ; 
now,  as  long  as  she  loved  thee,  she  always  abused  thee  like  a 
pickpocket." 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!  —  and  what  said  she  in  my  favour?" 

"  Why,  that  you  were  certainly  very  handsome,  though  you 
were  small;  that  you  were  certainly  a  great  genius,  though 
every  one  would  not  discover  it;  and  that  you  certainly  had 


DEVEREUX.  131 

the  air  of  high  birth,  though  you  were  not  nearly  so  well 
dressed  as  Beau  Tippetly.  But  entre  nous,  Devereux,  I  think 
she  hates  you,  and  would  play  you  a  trick  of  spite  —  revenge 
is  too  strong  a  word  —  if  she  could  find  an  opi)ortunity." 

"Likely  enough,  Tarleton;  but  a  coquette's  lover  is  always 
on  his  guard;  so  she  will  not  take  me  unawares." 

"  So  be  it.  But  tell  me,  Devereux,  who  is  to  be  your  next 
mistress,  Mrs.  Denton  or  Lady  Clancathcart?  the  world  gives 
them  both  to  you." 

"The  world  is  always  as  generous  with  what  is  worthless 
as  the  bishop  in  the  fable  was  with  his  blessing.  However, 
I  promise  thee,  Tarleton,  that  I  will  not  interfere  with  thy 
claims  either  upon  Mrs.  Denton  or  Lady  Clancathcart." 

"Nay,"  said  Tarleton,  "I  will  own  that  you  are  a  very 
Scipio;  but  it  must  be  confessed,  even  by  you,  satirist  as  you 
are,  that  Lady  Clancathcart  has  a  beautiful  set  of  features." 

"  A  handsome  face,  but  so  vilely  made.  She  would  make  a 
splendid  picture  if,  like  the  goddess  Laverna,  she  could  be 
painted  as  a  head  without  a  body." 

"Ha!  ha!  ha! — you  have  a  bitter  tongue.  Count;  but  Mrs. 
Denton,  what  have  you  to  say  against  her?" 

"Nothing;  she  has  no  pretensions  for  me  to  contradict. 
She  has  a  green  eye  and  a  sharp  voice ;  a  mincing  gait  and  a 
broad  foot.  What  friend  of  Mrs.  Denton  would  not,  there- 
fore, counsel  her  to  a  prudent  obscurity?" 

"She  never  had  but  one  lover  in  the  world,"  said  Tarleton, 
"  who  was  old,  blind,  lame,  and  poor ;  she  accepted  him,  and 
became  Mrs.  Denton." 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "she  was  like  the  magnet,  and  received  her 
name  from  the  very  first  person  ^  sensible  of  her  attraction." 

"Well,  you  have  a  shrewd  way  of  saying  sweet  things," 
said  Tarleton ;  "  but  I  must  own  that  you  rarely  or  never  di- 
rect it  towards  women  individually.  What  makes  you  break 
through  your  ordinary  custom?" 

"  Because  I  am  angry  with  women  collectively ;  and  must 
pour  my  spleen  through  whatever  channel  presents  itself." 

"Astonishing,"  said  Tarleton;  "I  despise  women  myself.  I 
1  Magnes. 


132  DEVEREUX. 

always  did;  but  you  were  their  most  entliusiastic  and  chival- 
rous defender  a  month  or  two  ago.  What  makes  thee  change, 
my  Sir  Amadis?" 

"Disappointment!  they  weary,  vex,  disgust  me;  selfish, 
frivolous,  mean,  heartless:  out  on  them!  'tis  a  disgrace  to 
have  their  love !  " 

"  0  del!  What  a  sensation  the  news  of  thy  misogyny  will 
cause ;  the  young,  gay,  rich  Count  Devereux,  whose  wit,  vi- 
vacity, splendour  of  appearance,  in  equipage  and  dress,  in 
the  course  of  one  season  have  thrown  all  the  most  established 
beaux  and  pretty  fellows  into  the  shade ;  to  whom  dedications 
and  odes  and  billet-doux  are  so  much  waste  paper;  who  has 
carried  off  the  most  general  envy  and  dislike  that  any  man 
ever  was  blest  with,  since  St.  John  turned  politician;  what! 
thou  all  of  a  sudden  to  become  a  railer  against  the  divine 
sex  that  made  thee  what  thou  art!  Fly,  fly,  unhappy  apos- 
tate, or  expect  the  fate  of  Orpheus,  at  least !  " 

"None  of  your  raileries,  Tarleton,  or  I  shall  speak  to  you 
of  plebeians  and  the  canaille  !  " 

,  " Sacre!  my  teeth  are  on  edge  already!  Oh,  the  base,  base 
canaille,  how  I  loathe  them!  Nay,  Devereux,  joking  apart,  I 
love  you  twice  as  well  for  your  humour.  I  despise  the  sex 
heartily.  Indeed,  stih  rosa  be  it  spoken,  there  are  few  things 
that  breathe  that  I  do  not  despise.  Human  nature  seems  to 
me  a  most  pitiful  bundle  of  rags  and  scraps,  which  the  gods 
threw  out  of  Heaven,  as  the  dust  and  rubbish  there." 

"A  pleasant  view  of  thy  species,"  said  I. 

"  By  my  soul  it  is.  Contempt  is  to  me  a  luxury.  I  would 
not  lose  the  privilege  of  loathing  for  all  the  objects  which 
fools  ever  admired.  What  does  old  Persius  say  on  the 
subject? 

"  '  Hoc  ridere  meum,  tam  nil,  nulla  tibi  vendo  Iliade.' "  ^ 

"And  yet,  Tarleton,"  said  I,  "the  littlest  feeling  of  all  is  a 
delight  in  contemplating  the  littleness  of  other  people.  Noth- 
ing is  more  contemptible  than  habitual  contempt." 

1  "  This  privilege  of  mine,  to  laugh,  —  such  a  nothing  as  it  seems,  —  I 
would  not  barter  to  thee  for  an  Eiad." 


DEVEREUX.  133 

"  Prithee,  now, '-'  answered  the  haughty  aristocrat,  "  let  us 
not  talk  of  these  matters  so  subtly :  leave  me  my  enjoyment 
without  refining  upon  it.  What  is  your  first  pursuit  for  the 
morning?" 

"  Why,  I  have  promised  my  uncle  a  picture  of  that  invalua- 
ble countenance  which  Lady  Hasselton  finds  so  handsome; 
and  I  am  going  to  give  Kneller  my  last  sitting." 

"So,  so,  I  will  accompany  you;  I  like  the  vain  old  dog; 
't  is  a  pleasure  to  hear  him  admire  himself  so  wittily." 

"  Come,  then ! "  said  I,  taking  up  my  hat  and  sword ; 
and,  entering  Tarleton's  carriage,  we  drove  to  the  painter's 
abode. 

We  found  him  employed  in  finishing  a  portrait  of  Lady 
Godolphin. 

"  He,  he !  "  cried  he,  when  he  beheld  me  approach.  "  By 
Got,  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  Count  Tevereux ;  dis  painting  is 
tamned  poor  work  by  one's  self,  widout  any  one  to  make  des 
(J rands  yeux,  and  cry,  'Oh,  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller,  how  fine 
dis  is!'" 

"Very  true,  indeed,"  said  I,  "no  great  man  can  be  expected 
to  waste  his  talents  without  his  proper  reward  of  praise.  But, 
Heavens,  Tarleton,  did  you  ever  see  anything  so  wonderful?  — 
that  hand,  that  arm,  how  exquisite!  If  Apollo  turned  painter, 
and  borrowed  colours  from  the  rainbow  and  models  from  the 
goddesses,  he  would  not  be  fit  to  hold  the  pallet  to  Sir 
Godfrey  Kneller." 

"By  Got,  Count  Tevereux,  you  are  von  grand  judge  of 
painting,"  cried  the  artist,  with  sparkling  eyes,  "and  I  will 
paint  you  as  von  tamned  handsome  man !  " 

"Nay,  my  Apelles,  you  might  as  well  preserve  some 
likeness." 

"Likeness,  by  Got!  I  vill  make  you  like  and  handsome 
both.  By  my  shoul  you  make  me  von  Apelles,  I  vill  make 
you  von  Alexander  I  " 

"People  in  general,"  said  Tarleton,  gravely,  "believe  that 
Alexander  had  a  wry  neck,  and  was  a  very  plain  fellow ;  but 
no  one  can  know  about  Alexander  like  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller, 
who  has  studied  military  tactics  so  accurately,  and  who,  if 


134  DEVEREUX. 

lie  had  taken  up  the  sword  instead  of  the  pencil,  would  have 
been  at  least  an  Alexander  himself." 

"By  Got,  Meester  Tarleton,  you  are  as  goot  a  judge  of  de 
talents  for  de  war  as  Count  Tevereux  of  de  genie  for  de  paint- 
ing !  Meester  Tarleton,  I  vill  paint  your  picture,  and  I  vill 
make  your  eyes  von  goot  inch  bigger  than  dey  are !  " 

"  Large  or  small, "  said  I  (for  Tarleton,  who  had  a  haughty 
custom  of  contracting  his  orbs  till  they  were  scarce  percepti- 
ble, was  so  much  offended,  that  I  thought  it  prudent  to  cut 
off  his  reply),  "large  or  small,  Sir  Godfrey,  Mr.  Tarleton's 
eyes  are  capable  of  admiring  your  genius ;  why,  your  painting 
is  like  lightning,  and  one  flash  of  your  brush  would  be  suffi- 
cient to  restore  even  a  blind  man  to  sight." 

"It  is  tamned  true,"  said  Sir  Godfrey,  earnestly;  "and  it 
did  restore  von  man  to  sight  once !  By  my  shoul,  it  did !  but 
sit  yourself  town,  Count  Tevereux,  and  look  over  your  left 
shoulder  —  ah,  dat  is  it  —  and  now,  praise  on.  Count  Tev- 
ereux ;  de  thought  of  my  genius  gives  you  —  vat  you  call  it  — 
von  animation  —  von  fire,  look  you  —  by  my  shoul,  it  does !  " 

And  by  dint  of  such  moderate  panegyric,  the  worthy  Sir 
Godfrey  completed  my  picture,  with  equal  satisfaction  to 
himself  and  the  original.  See  what  a  beautifier  is  flattery:  a 
few  sweet  words  will  send  the  Count  Devereux  down  to  pos- 
terity with  at  least  three  times  as  much  beauty  as  he  could 
justly  lay  claim  to.'' 

1  This  picture  represents  the  Count  in  an  undress.  The  face  is  decidedly, 
though  by  no  means  remarliably,  handsome  ;  the  nose  is  aquiline,  —  the  upper 
lip  short  and  chiselled,  — the  eyes  gray,  and  the  forehead,  -which  is  by  far  the 
finest  feature  in  the  countenance,  is  peculiarly  high,  broad,  and  massive.  The 
mouth  has  but  little  beauty ;  it  is  severe,  caustic,  and  rather  displeasing,  from 
the  extreme  compression  of  the  lips.  The  great  and  prevalent  expression  of 
the  face  is  energy.  The  eye,  the  brow,  the  turn  of  the  head,  the  erect,  pene- 
trating aspect,  —  are  all  strikingly  bold,  animated,  and  even  daring.  And 
this  expression  makes  a  singular  contrast  to  that  in  another  likeness  to  the 
Cdunt,  which  was  taken  at  a  much  later  period  of  life.  The  latter  portrait 
represents  him  in  a  foreign  uniform,  decorated  with  orders.  The  peculiar 
sarcasm  of  the  mouth  is  hidden  beneath  a  very  long  and  thick  mustachio,  of 
a  much  darker  colour  than  the  hair  (for  in  both  portraits,  as  in  Jervas's  pic- 
ture of  Lord  Bolingbroke,  the  hair  is  left  undisguised  by  the  odious  fashion 
of  the  day)      Across  one  cheek  there  is  a  slight  scar,  as  of  a  sabre  cut.    The 


DEVEREUX.  135 


CHAPTER    IX. 

A  DEVELOPMENT  OF  CHARACTER,  AND  A  LONG  LETTER;  A 
CHAPTER,  ON  THE  WHOLE,  MORE  IMPORTANT  THAK  IT 
SEEMS. 

The  scenes  through  which,  of  late,  I  have  conducted  my 
reader  are  by  no  means  episodical :  they  illustrate  far  more 
than  mere  narration  the  career  to  which  I  was  so  honourably 
devoted.  Dissipation, — women, — wine,  —  Tarleton  for  a 
friend,  Lady  Hasselton  for  a  mistress.  Let  me  now  throw 
aside  the  mask. 

To  people  who  have  naturally  very  intense  and  very  acute 
feelings,  nothing  is  so  fretting,  so  wearing  to  the  heart,  as 
the  commonplace  aifections,  which  are  the  properties  and  off- 
spring of  the  world.  We  have  seen  the  birds  which,  with 
wings  unclipt,  children  fasten  to  a  stake.  The  birds  seek  to 
fly,  and  are  pulled  back  before  their  wings  are  well  spread; 
till,  at  last,  they  either  perpetually  strain  at  the  end  of  their 
short  tether,  exciting  only  ridicule  by  their  anguish  and  their 
impotent  impatience;  or,  sullen  and  despondent,  they  re- 
main on  the  ground,  without  any  attempt  to  fly,  nor  creep, 
even  to  the  full  limit  which  their  fetters  will  allow.  Thus 
it  is  with  the  feelings  of  the  keen,  wild  nature  I  speak  of: 
they  are  either  striving  forever  to  pass  the  little  circle  of 
slavery  to  which  they  are  condemned,  and  so  move  laughter 
by  an  excess  of  action  and  a  want  of  adequate  power;  or  they 
rest  motionless  and  moody,  disdaining  the  petty  indulgence 

whole  character  of  this  portrait  is  widely  different  from  that  in  the  earlier 
one.  Not  a  trace  of  the  fire,  the  animation,  which  were  so  striking  in  the 
physiognomy  of  the  youth  of  twenty,  is  discoverable  in  the  calm,  sedate, 
stately,  yet  somewhat  stern  expression,  which  seems  immovably  spread  over 
the  paler  hue  and  the  more  prominent  features  of  the  man  of  about  four  or 
five  and  thirty.  Yet,  upon  the  whole,  the  face  in  the  latter  portrait  is  hand- 
somer ;  and,  from  its  air  of  dignity  and  reflection,  even  more  impressive  than 
that  in  the  one  I  have  first  described.  —  Eu. 


136  DEVEREUX. 

they  might  enjoy,  till  sullenness  is  construed  into  resignation, 
and  despair  seems  the  apathy  of  content.  Time,  however,  cures 
what  it  does  not  kill;  and  both  bird  and  beast,  if  they  pine  not 
to  the  death  at  first,  grow  tame  and  acquiescent  at  last. 

What  to  nie  was  the  companionship  of  Tarleton,  or  the  at- 
tachment of  Lady  Hasselton?  I  had  yielded  to  the  one,  and 
I  had  half  eagerly,  half  scornfully,  sought  the  other.  These, 
and  the  avocations  they  brought  with  them,  consumed  my 
time,  and  of  Time  murdered  there  is  a  ghost  which  we  term 
ennui.  The  hauntings  of  this  spectre  are  the  especial  curse 
of  the  higher  orders ;  and  hence  springs  a  certain  consequence 
to  the  passions.  Persons  in  those  ranks  of  society  so  exposed 
to  ennui  are  either  rendered  totally  incapable  of  real  love,  or 
they  love  far  more  intensely  than  those  in  a  lower  station; 
for  the  affections  in  them  are  either  utterly  frittered  away  on 
a  thousand  petty  objects  (poor  shifts  to  escape  the  persecut- 
ing spectre),  or  else,  early  disgusted  with  the  worthlessness 
of  these  objects,  the  heart  turns  within  and  languishes  for 
something  not  found  in  the  daily  routine  of  life.  When  this 
is  the  case,  and  when  the  pining  of  the  heart  is  once  satisfied, 
and  the  object  of  love  is  found,  there  are  two  mighty  reasons 
why  the  love  should  be  most  passionately  cherished.  The 
first  is,  the  utter  indolence  in  which  aristocratic  life  oozes 
away,  and  which  allows  full  food  for  that  meditation  which 
can  nurse  by  sure  degrees  the  weakest  desire  into  the  strong- 
est passion;  and  the  second  reason  is,  that  the  insipidity  and 
hollowness  of  all  patrician  pursuits  and  pleasures  render  the 
excitement  of  love  more  delicious  and  more  necessary  to  the 
^^ignavi  terrarum  domini,^^  than  it  is  to  those  orders  of  soci- 
ety more  usefully,  more  constantly,  and  more  engrossingly 
engaged. 

Wearied  and  sated  with  the  pursuit  of  what  was  worthless, 
my  heart,  at  last,  exhausted  itself  in  pining  for  what  was 
pure.  I  recurred  with  a  tenderness  which  I  struggled  with  at 
first,  and  which  in  yielding  to  I  blushed  to  acknowledge,  to 
the  memory  of  Isora.  And  in  the  world,  surrounded  by  all 
which  might  be  supposed  to  cause  me  to  forget  her,  my  heart 
clung  to  her  far  more  endearingly  than  it  had  done  in  the 


DEVEREUX.  137 

rural  solitudes  in  which  she  had  first  allured  it.  The  truth 
was  this ;  at  the  time  I  first  loved  her,  other  passions  —  yjas- 
sions  almost  equally  powerful  —  shared  her  empire.  Ambi- 
tion and  pleasure  —  vast  whirlpools  of  thought  —  had  just 
opened  themselves  a  channel  in  my  mind,  and  thither  the 
tides  of  my  desires  were  hurried  and  lost.  Now  those  whirl- 
pools had  lost  their  power,  and  the  channels,  being  dammed 
up,  flowed  back  upon  my  breast.  Pleasure  had  disgusted  me, 
and  the  only  ambition  I  had  yet  courted  and  pursued  had 
palled  upon  me  still  more.  I  say,  the  only  ambition,  for  as 
yet  that  which  is  of  the  loftier  and  more  lasting  kind  had 
not  afforded  me  a  temptation ;  and  the  hope  which  had  borne 
the  name  and  rank  of  ambition  had  been  the  hope  rather  to 
glitter  than  to  rise. 

These  passions,  not  yet  experienced  when  I  lost  Isora,  had 
afforded  me  at  that  period  a  ready  comfort  and  a  sure  engross- 
ment. And,  in  satisfying  the  hasty  jealousies  of  my  temper, 
in  deeming  Isora  unworthy  and  Gerald  my  rival,  I  naturally 
aroused  in  my  pride  a  dexterous  orator  as  well  as  a  firm  ally. 
Pride  not  only  strengthened  my  passions,  it  also  persuaded 
them  by  its  voice;  and  it  was  not  till  the  languid  yet  deep 
stillness  of  sated  wishes  and  palled  desires  fell  upon  me,  that 
the  low  accent  of  a  love  still  surviving  at  my  heart  made 
itself  heard  in  answer. 

I  now  began  to  take  a  different  view  of  Isora's  conduct. 
I  now  began  to  doubt  where  I  had  formerly  believed;  and 
the  doubt,  first  allied  to  fear,  gradually  brightened  into  hope. 
Of  Gerald's  rivalry,  at  least  of  his  identity  with  Barnard, 
and,  consequently,  of  his  power  over  Isora,  there  was,  and 
there  could  be,  no  feeling  short  of  certainty.  But  of  what 
nature  was  that  power?  Had  not  Isora  assured  me  that  it 
was  not  love?  Why  should  I  disbelieve  her?  Xay,  did  she 
not  love  myself?  had  not  her  cheek  blushed  and  her  hand 
trembled  when  I  addressed  her?  Were  these  signs  the 
counterfeits  of  love?  Were  they  not  rather  of  that  heart's 
dye  which  no  skill  can  counterfeit?  She  had  declared  that 
she  could  not,  that  she  could  never,  be  mine ;  she  liad  declared 
so  with  a  fearful  earnestness  which  seemed  to  annihilate  hope; 


138  DEVEREUX. 

but  had  she  not  also,  in  the  same  meeting,  confessed  that  I 
was  dear  to  her?  Had  not  her  lip  given  me  a  sweeter  and 
a  more  eloquent  assurance  of  that  confession  than  words?  — 
and  could  hope  perish  while  love  existed?  She  had  left  me, 
—  she  had  bid  me  farewell  forever ;  but  that  was  no  proof  of 
a  want  of  love,  or  of  her  unworthiness.  Gerald,  or  Barnard, 
evidently  possessed  an  influence  over  father  as  well  as  child. 

Their  departure   from  might   have  been  occasioned  by 

him,  and  she  might  have  deplored,  while  she  could  not  resist 
it;  or  she  might  not  even  have  deplored;  nay,  she  might  have 
desired,  she  might  have  advised  it,  for  my  sake  as  well  as 
hers,  were  she  thoroughly  convinced  that  the  union  of  our 
loves  was  impossible. 

But,  then,  of  what  nature  could  be  this  mysterious  authority 
which  Gerald  possessed  over  her?  That  which  he  possessed 
over  the  sire,  political  schemes  might  account  for;  but  these, 
surely,  could  not  have  much  weight  for  the  daughter.  This, 
indeed,  must  still  remain  doubtful  and  unaccounted  for.  One 
presumption,  that  Gerald  was  either  no  favoured  lover  or  that 
he  was  unacquainted  with  her  retreat,  might  be  drawn  from 
his  continued  residence  at  Devereux  Court.  If  he  loved  Isora, 
and  knew  her  present  abode,  would  he  not  have  sought  her? 
Could  he,  I  thought,  live  away  from  that  bright  face,  if  once 
allowed  to  behold  it?  unless,  indeed  (terrible  thought!)  there 
hung  over  it  the  dimness  of  guilty  familiarity,  and  indifference 
had  been  the  offspring  of  possession.  But  was  that  delicate 
and  virgin  face,  where  changes  with  every  moment  coursed 
each  other,  harmonious  to  the  changes  of  the  mind,  as  shadows 
in  a  valley  reflect  the  clouds  of  heaven !  —  was  that  face,  so  in- 
genuous, so  girlishly  revelant  of  all, —  even  of  the  slightest, 
the  most  transitory,  emotion, —  the  face  of  one  hardened  in 
deceit  and  inured  to  shame?  The  countenance  is,  it  is  true, 
but  a  faithless  mirror;  but  what  man  that  has  studied  women 
will  not  own  that  there  is,  at  least  while  the  down  of  first 
youth  is  not  brushed  away,  in  the  eye  and  cheek  of  zoned  and 
untainted  Innocence,  that  which  survives  not  even  the  fruition 
of  a  lawful  love,  and  has  no  (nay,  not  even  a  shadowed  and  im- 
perfect) likeness  in  the  face  of  guilt?     Then,  too,  had  any 


DEVEREUX.  139 

worldlier  or  mercenary  sentiment  entered  her  breast  respecting 
me,  would  Isora  have  flown  from  the  suit  of  the  eldest  scion  of 
the  rich  house  of  Devereux?  and  would  she,  poor  and  destitute, 
the  daughter  of  an  alien  and  an  exile,  would  she  have  sponta- 
neously relinquished  any  hope  of  obtaining  that  alliance  which 
maidens  of  the  loftiest  houses  of  England  had  not  disdained 
to  desire?  Thus  confused  and  incoherent,  but  thus  yearning 
fondly  towards  her  image  and  its  imagined  purity,  did  my 
thoughts  daily  and  hourly  array  themselves ;  and,  in  propor- 
tion as  I  suffered  common  ties  to  drop  froiu  me  one  by  one, 
those  thoughts  clung  the  more  tenderly  to  that  which,  though 
severed  from  the  rich  argosy  of  former  love,  was  still  indis- 
solubly  attached  to  the  anchor  of  its  hope. 

It  was  during  this  period  of  revived  affection  that  I  received 
the  following  letter  from  my  uncle :  — 

I  thank  thee  for  thy  long  letter,  my  dear  boy ;  I  read  it  over  three 
times  with  great  delight.  Ods  fish,  Morton,  you  are  a  sad  Pickle,  I  fear, 
and  seem  to  know  all  the  ways  of  the  town  as  well  as  your  old  uncle  did 
some  thirty  years  ago  I  'T  is  a  very  pretty  acquaintance  with  human 
nature  that  your  letters  display.  You  put  me  in  mind  of  little  Sid,  who 
was  just  about  your  height,  and  who  had  just  such  a  pretty,  shrewd  way 
of  expressing  himself  in  simile  and  point.  Ah,  it  is  easy  to  see  that  you 
have  profited  by  your  old  uncle's  conversation,  and  that  Farquhar  and 
Etherege  were  not  studied  for  nothing. 

But  I  have  sad  news  for  thee,  my  child,  or  rather  it  is  sad  for  me  to 
tell  thee  my  tidings.  It  is  sad  for  the  old  birds  to  linger  in  their  nest 
when  the  young  ones  take  wing  and  leave  them  ;  but  it  is  merry  for  the 
young  birds  to  get  away  from  the  dull  old  tree,  and  frisk  it  in  the  sun- 
shine, —  merry  for  them  to  get  mates,  and  have  young  themselves. 
Now,  do  not  think,  ^Morton,  that  by  speaking  of  mates  and  youno;  T  am 
going  to  tell  thee  thy  brothers  are  already  married  ;  nay,  there  is  time 
enough  for  those  things,  and  I  am  not  friendly  to  early  weddings,  nor  to 
speak  truly,  a  marvellous  great  admirer  of  that  holy  ceremony  at  any 
age ;  for  the  which  there  may  be  private  reasons  too  long  to  relate  to 
thee  now.  INIoreover,  I  fear  my  young  day  was  a  wicked  time,  —  a 
heinous  wicked  time,  and  we  were  wont  to  laugh  at  the  wedded  state, 
until,  body  of  me,  some  of  us  found  it  no  laughing  matter. 

But  to  return,  Morton,  —  to  return  to  thy  brothers  :  they  have  both 
left  me  ;  and  the  house  seems  to  me  not  the  good  old  house  it  did  when 


140  DEVEKEUX. 

ye  -were  all  about  me  ;  and,  somehow  or  other,  I  look  now  oftener  at  the 
churchyard  than  I  was  wont  to  do.  You  are  all  gone  now,  —  all  shot 
up  and  become  men  ;  and  when  your  old  uncle  sees  you  no  more,  and 
recollects  that  all  his  own  contemporaries  are  out  of  the  world,  he  cannot 
help  saying,  as  William  Temple,  poor  fellow,  once  prettily  enough  said, 
"Methinks  it  seems  an  impertinence  in  me  to  be  still  alive."  You  went 
first,  iSIorton  ;  and  I  missed  you  more  than  I  cared  to  say  :  but  you  were 
always  a  kind  boy  to  those  you  loved,  and  you  wrote  the  old  knight 
merry  letters,  that  made  him  laugh,  and  think  he  was  grown  young 
again  (faith,  boy,  that  was  a  jolly  story  of  the  three  Squires  at  Button's !), 
and  once  a  week  comes  your  packet,  well  filled,  as  if  you  did  not  think 
it  a  task  to  make  me  happy,  which  your  handwriting  always  does ;  nor 
a  shame  to  my  gray  hairs  that  I  take  pleasure  in  the  same  things  that 
please  thee  !  So,  thou  seest,  my  child,  that  I  have  got  through  thy 
absence  pretty  well,  save  that  I  have  had  no  one  to  read  thy  letters  to ; 
for  Gerald  and  thou  are  still  jealous  of  each  other,  —  a  great  sin  in  thee, 
Morton,  which  I  prithee  to  reform.  And  Aubrey,  poor  lad,  is  a  little 
too  rigid,  considering  his  years,  and  it  looks  not  well  in  the  dear  boy  to 
shake  his  head  at  the  follies  of  his  uncle.  And  as  to  thy  mother,  Morton, 
I  read  her  one  of  thy  letters,  and  she  said  thou  wert  a  graceless  repro- 
bate to  think  so  much  of  this  wicked  world,  and  to  write  so  familiarly  to 
thine  aged  relative.  Xow,  I  am  not  a  young  man,  Morton;  but  the 
word  aged  has  a  sharp  sound  with  it  when  it  comes  from  a  lady's 
mouth. 

Well,  after  thou  hadst  been  gone  a  month,  Aubrey  and  Gerald,  as  I 
wrote  thee  word  long  since,  in  the  last  letter  I  wrote  thee  with  mv  own 
hand,  made  a  tour  together  for  a  little  while,  and  that  was  a  hard  stroke 
on  me.  But  after  a  week  or  two  Gerald  returned ;  and  I  went  out  in 
my  chair  to  see  the  dear  boy  shoot,  —  'sdeath,  Morton,  he  handles  the 
gun  well.  And  then  Aubrey  returned  alone  :  but  he  looked  pined  and 
moping,  and  shut  himself  up,  and  as  thou  dost  love  hira  so,  I  did  not 
like  to  tell  thee  till  now,  when  he  is  quite  well,  that  he  alarmed  me  much 
for  him  ;  he  is  too  much  addicted  to  his  devotions,  poor  child,  and  seems 
to  forget  that  the  hope  of  the  next  world  ought  to  make  us  happy  in 
this.  Well,  Morton,  at  last,  two  months  ago,  Aubrey  left  us  again,  and 
Gerald  last  week  set  off  on  a  tour  through  the  sister  kingdom,  as  it  is 
called.  Faith,  boy,  if  Scotland  and  Ensrland  arc  sister  kingdoms,  't  is  a 
thousand  pities  for  Scotland  that  they  are  not  co-heiresses  ! 

I  should  have  told  thee  of  this  news  before,  but  I  have  had,  as  thou 
knowest,  the  gout  so  villanonsly  in  my  hand  that,  till  t'  other  day,  I 
have  not  held  a  pen,  and  old  Xicholls,  my  amanuensis,  is  but  a  poor 
scribe ;  and  I  did  not  love  to  let  the  dog  write  to  thee  on  all  our  family 


DEVEREUX.  141 

affairs,  especially  as  T  have  a  secret  to  tell  thee  which  makes  me  plaguy 
uneasy.  Thou  must  know,  Morton,  that  after  thy  departure  Gerald 
asked  me  for  thy  rooms  ;  and  though  I  did  not  like  that  any  one  else 
should  have  what  belonged  to  thee,  yet  I  have  always  had  a  foolish 
antipathy  to  say  "  No  1  "  so  thy  brother  had  them,  on  condition  to  leave 
them  exactly  as  they  were,  and  to  yield  them  to  thee  whenever  thou 
shouldst  return  to  claim  them.  Well,  Morton,  when  Gerald  went  on  liis 
tour  with  thy  youngest  brother,  old  Nicholls  —  you  know  't  is  a  garru- 
lous fellow  —  told  me  one  night  that  his  son  Hugh  —  you  remember 
Hugh,  a  thin  youth  and  a  tall  —  lingering  by  the  beach  one  evening, 
saw  a  man,  wrapped  in  a  cloak,  come  out  of  the  castle  cave,  unmoor  one 
of  the  boats,  and  push  off  to  the  little  island  opposite.  Hugh  swears  by 
more 'than  yea  and  nay  that  the  man  was  Father  Montreuil.  Now, 
INIorton,  this  made  me  very  uneasy,  and  I  saw  why  thy  brother  Gerald 
wanted  thy  rooms,  which  communicate  so  snugly  with  the  sea.  So  I 
told  Nicholls,  slyly,  to  have  the  great  iron  gate  at  the  mouth  of  the 
passage  carefully  locked ;  and  when  it  was  locked,  I  had  an  iron  plate 
put  over  the  whole  lock,  that  the  lean  Jesuit  might  not  creep  even 
through  the  keyhole.  Thy  brother  returned,  and  I  told  him  a  tale  of 
the  smugglers,  Avho  have  really  been  too  daring  of  late,  and  insisted  on 
the  door  being  left  as  I  had  ordered  ;  and  I  told  him,  moreover,  though 
not  as  if  I  had  susj)ected  his  communication  with  the  priest,  that  I 
interdicted  all  further  converse  with  that  limb  of  the  Church.  Thy 
brother  heard  me  with  an  indifferently  bad  grace ;  but  I  was  peremp- 
tory, and  the  thing  was  agreed  on. 

Well,  child,  the  day  before  Gerald  last  left  us,  I  went  to  take  leave  of 
him  in  his  own  room,  —  to  tell  thee  the  truth,  I  had  forgotten  his  trav- 
elling expenses  ;  when  I  was  on  the  stairs  of  the  tower  I  heard  —  by 
the  Lord  I  did  —  Montreuil's  voice  in  the  outer  room,  as  plainly  as  ever 
I  heard  it  at  prayers.  Ods  fish,  Morton,  I  was  an  angered,  and  I  made 
so  much  haste  tc  the  door  that  my  foot  slipped  by  the  way  :  thy  brother 
heard  me  fall,  and  came  out ;  but  I  looked  at  him  as  I  never  looked  at 
thee,  ]\rorton,  and  entered  the  room.  Lo,  the  priest  was  not  there  :  I 
searched  both  chambers  in  vain ;  so  I  made  thy  brother  lift  up  the  trap- 
door, and  kindle  a  lamp,  and  I  searched  the  room  below,  and  the  passage. 
The  priest  was  invisible.  Thou  knowest,  Morton,  that  there  is  only 
one  egress  in  the  passage,  and  that  was  locked,  as  I  have  said  before,  so 
where  the  devil  — the  devil  indeed  — could  thy  tutor  have  escaped? 
He  could  not  have  passed  me  on  the  stairs  without  my  seeing  him  ;  he 
could  not  have  leaped  the  window  without  breaking  his  neck  ;  he  couM 
not  have  got  out  of  the  passage  without  making  himself  a  current  of  air. 
Ods  fish,  Morton,  this  thing   might   puzzle   a  wiser   man   than    thine 


142  DEVEREUX. 

uncle.  Gerald  affected  to  be  mighty  indignant  at  my  suspicions ;  but, 
God  forgive  him,  I  saw  he  was  playing  a  part.  A  man  does  not  write 
plays,  my  child,  without  being  keen-sighted  in  these  little  intrigues; 
and,  moreover,  it  is  impossible  I  could  have  mistaken  thy  tutor's  voice, 
which,  to  do  it  justice,  is  musical  enough,  and  is  the  most  singular  voice 
I  ever  heard,  —  unless  little  Sid's  be  excepted. 

A  propos  of  little  Sid.  I  remember  that  in  the  Mall,  when  I  was 
walking  there  alone,  three  weeks  after  my  marriage,  De  Graramont  and 
Sid  joined  me.  I  was  in  a  melancholic  mood  ('sdeath,  Morton,  marriage 
tames  a  man  as  water  tames  mice  !)  —  ''Aha,  Sir  William,"  cried  Sedley, 
"  thou  hast  a  cloud  on  thee  ;  prithee  now  brighten  it  away  :  see,  thy 
wife  shines  on  thee  from  the  other  end  of  the  Mall."  "  Ah,  talk  not  to 
a  dying  man  of  his  physic  !  "  said  Graramont  (that  Graramont  was  a 
shocking  rogue,  Morton  !)  "  Prithee,  Sir  William,  what  is  the  chief 
characteristic  of  wedlock?  is  it  a  state  of  war  or  of  peace?"  "Oh, 
peace  to  be  sure  1  "  cried  Sedley,  "  and  Sir  William  and  his  lady  carry 
with  them  the  emblem."  "  How  I  "  cried  I ;  for  I  do  assure  thee, 
Morton,  I  was  of  a  different  turn  of  mind.  "  How  I  "  said  Sid,  gravely, 
"  why,  the  emblem  of  peace  is  the  cornucopia,  which  your  lady  and  you 
equitably  divide  :  she  carries  the  copia,  and  you  the  cor — ."  Xay, 
Morton,  nay,  I  cannot  finish  the  jest ;  for,  after  all,  it  was  a  sorry  thing 
in  little  Sid,  whom  I  had  befriended  like  a  brother,  with  heart  and 
purse,  to  wound  me  so  cuttingly ;  but  't  is  the  way  with  your  jesters. 

Ods  fish,  now  how  I  have  got  out  of  my  story  !  AVell,  I  did  not  go 
back  to  my  room,  Morton,  till  I  had  looked  to  the  outside  of  the  iron 
door,  and  seen  that  the  plate  was  as  firm  as  ever :  so  now  you  have  the 
whole  of  the  matter.  Gerald  went  the  next  day,  and  I  fear  me  much 
lest  he  should  already  be  caught  in  some  Jacobite  trap.  Write  me  thy 
advice  on  the  subject.  Meanwhile,  I  have  taken  the  precaution  to  have 
the  trap-door  removed,  and  the  aperture  strongly  boarded  over. 

But  't  is  time  for  me  to  give  over.  I  have  been  four  days  on  this 
letter,  for  the  gout  comes  now  to  me  oftener  than  it  did,  and  I  do  not 
know  when  I  may  again  write  to  thee  with  my  own  hand  ;  so  I  resolved 
I  would  e'en  empty  my  whole  budget  at  once.  Thy  mother  is  well  and 
blooming ;  she  is,  at  the  present,  abstractedly  employed  in  a  prodigious 
piece  of  tapestry  which  old  Nicholls  informs  me  is  the  wonder  of  all  the 
women. 

Heaven  bless  thee,  my  child  !  Take  care  of  thyself,  and  drink  mod- 
erately. It  is  hurtful,  at  thy  age,  to  drink  above  a  gallon  or  so  at  a 
sitting.  Heaven  bless  thee  again,  and  when  the  weather  gets  warmer, 
thou  must  come  with  thy  kind  looks,  to  make  me  feel  at  home  again. 
At  present  the  country  wears  a  cheerless  face,  and  everything  about  us 


DEVEREUX.  143 

is  harsh  and  frosty,  except  the  blunt,  good-for-nothing  heart  of  thine 
uncle,  and  that,  winter  or  summer,  is  always  warm  to  thee. 

"William  Devereux. 

P.  S.  I  thank  thee  heartily  for  the  little  spaniel  of  the  new  breed 
thou  gottest  me  from  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough.  It  has  the  prettiest 
red  and  white,  and  the  blackest  eyes  possible.  But  poor  Ponto  is  as 
jealous  as  a  wife  three  years  married,  and  I  cannot  bear  the  old  hound 
to  be  vexed,  so  I  shall  transfer  the  little  creature,  its  rival,  to  thy 
mother. 

This  letter,  tolerably  characteristic  of  the  blended  simpli' 
city,  penetration,  and  overflowing  kindness  of  the  writer,  oc- 
casioned me  much  anxious  thought.  There  was  no  doubt  in 
my  mind  but  that  Gerald  and  Montreuil  were  engaged  in 
some  intrigue  for  the  exiled  family.  The  disguised  name 
which  the  former  assumed,  the  state  reasons  which  D'Alvarez 
confessed  that  Barnard,  or  rather  Gerald,  had  for  conceal- 
ment, and  which  proved,  at  leastj  that  some  state  plot  in 
which  Gerald  was  engaged  was  known  to  the  Spaniard,  joined 
to  those  expressions  of  Montreuil,  which  did  all  but  own  a 
design  for  the  restoration  of  the  deposed  line,  and  the  power 
which  I  knew  he  possessed  over  Gerald,  whose  mind,  at  once 
bold  and  facile,  would  love  the  adventure  of  the  intrigue,  and 
yield  to  Montreuil's  suggestions  on  its  nature,  —  these  com- 
bined circumstances  left  me  in  no  doubt  upon  a  subject  deeply 
interesting  to  the  honour  of  our  house,  and  the  very  life  of  one 
of  its  members.  Nothing,  however,  for  me  to  do,  calculated 
to  prevent  or  impede  the  designs  of  ^Montreuil  and  the  dan- 
ger of  Gerald,  occurred  to  me.  Eager  alike  in  my  hatred  and 
my  love,  I  said,  inly,  "What  matters  it  whether  one  whom 
the  ties  of  blood  never  softened  towards  me,  with  whom,  from 
my  childhood  upwards,  I  have  wrestled  as  with  an  enemy, 
what  matters  it  whether  he  win  fame  or  death  in  the  perilous 
game  he  has  engaged  in?"  And  turning  from  this  most  gen- 
erous and  most  brotherly  view  of  the  subject,  I  began  only  to 
think  whether  the  search  or  the  society  of  Isora  also  influ- 
enced Gerald  in  his  absence  from  home.  After  a  fruitless 
and  inconclusive  meditation  on  that  head,  my  thoughts  took 


144  DEVEREUX. 

a  less  selfish  turn,  and  dwelt  with  all  the  softness  of  pity, 
and  the  anxiety  of  love,  upon  the  morbid  temperament  and 
ascetic  devotions  of  Aubrey.  What,  for  one  already  so  ab- 
stracted from  the  enjoyments  of  earth,  so  darkened  by  super- 
stitious misconceptions  of  the  true  nature  of  God  and  the  true 
objects  of  His  creatures, —  what  could  be  anticipated  but 
wasted  powers  and  a  perverted  life?  Alas!  when  will  men 
perceive  the  difference  between  religion  and  priestcraft? 
When  will  they  perceive  that  reason,  so  far  from  extinguish- 
ing religion  by  a  more  gaudy  light,  sheds  on  it  all  its  lustre? 
It  is  fabled  that  the  first  legislator  of  the  Peruvians  received 
from  the  Deity  a  golden  tod,  with  which  in  his  wanderings 
he  was  to  strike  the  earth,  until  in  some  destined  spot  the 
earth  entirely  absorbed  it,  and  there  —  and  there  alone  —  was 
he  to  erect  a  temple  to  the  Divinity.  What  is  this  fable  but 
the  cloak  of  an  inestimable  moral?  Our  reason  is  the  rod  of 
gold ;  the  vast  world  of  truth  gives  the  soil,  which  it  is  perpet- 
ually to  sound;  and  only  where  without  resistance  the  soil 
receives  the  rod  which  guided  and  supported  us  will  our  altar 
be  sacred  and  our  worship  be  accepted. 


CHAPTER  X. 

BEING   A   SHORT    CHAPTER,    CONTAINING   A   MOST   IMPORTANT 

EVENT. 

Sir  William's  letter  was  still  fresh  in  my  mind,  when, 
for  want  of  some  less  noble  quarter  wherein  to  bestow  my 
tediousness,  I  repaired  to  St.  John.  As  I  crossed  the  hall  to 
his  apartment,  two  men,  just  dismissed  from  his  presence, 
passed  me  rapidly;  one  was  unknown  to  me,  but  there  was 
no  mistaking  the  other, —  it  was  Montreuil.  I  was  greatly 
startled ;  the  priest,  not  appearing  to  notice  me,  and  convers- 
ing in  a  whispered  yet  seemingly  vehement  tone  with  his 


DEVEREUX.  145 

companion,  hurried  on  and  vanished  through  the  street  door. 
I  entered  St.  John's  room:  he  was  alone,  and  received  me 
with  his  usual  gayety. 

"Pardon  me,  Mr.  Secretary,"  said  I;  "but  if  not  a  ques- 
tion of  state,  do  inform  me  what  you  know  respecting  the 
taller  one  of  those  two  gentlemen  who  have  just  quitted 
you." 

"It  is  a  question  of  state,  my  dear  Devereux,  so  my  an- 
swer must  be  brief,  — very  little." 

"You  know  who  he  is?" 

"  Yes,  a  Jesuit,  and  a  marvellously  shrewd  one :  the  Abbe 
Montreuil." 

"He  was  my  tutor." 

"Ah,  so  I  have  heard." 

"And  your  acquaintance  with  him  is  positively  and  bona 
fide  of  a  state  nature  ?  " 

"Positively  and  bona  fide." 

"  I  could  tell  you  something  of  him ;  he  is  certainly  in  the 
service  of  the  Court  at  St.  Germains,  and  a  terrible  plotter 
on  this  side  the  Channel." 

"Possibly;  but  I  wish  to  receive  no  information  respecting 
him." 

One  great  virtue  of  business  did  St.  John  possess,  and  I 
have  never  known  any  statesman  who  possessed  it  so  emi- 
nently :  it  was  the  discreet  distinction  between  friends  of  the 
statesman  and  friends  of  the  man.  Much  and  intimately  as 
I  knew  St.  John,  I  could  never  glean  from  him  a  single  se- 
cret of  a  state  nature,  until,  indeed,  at  a  later  period,  I  leagued 
myself  to  a  portion  of  his  public  schemes.  Accordingly  I 
found  him,  at  the  present  moment,  perfectly  impregnable  to 
my  inquiries;  and  it  was  not  till  I  knew  Montreuil's  com- 
panion was  that  celebrated  intriguant,  the  Abbe  Gaultier, 
that  I  ascertained  the  exact  nature  of  the  priest's  business 
with  St.  John,  and  the  exact  motive  of  the  civilities  he  had 
received  from  Abigail  Masham.^     Being  at  last  forced,   de- 

1  Namely,  that  Count  Devereux  ascertained  the  priest's  commnnications 
and  overtures  from  the  Chevalier.  The  precise  extent  of  Bolingbroke's 
secret  negotiations  with  the  exiled  Prince  is  still  one  of  the  darkest  portions 

10 


146  DEVEREUX. 

spairingly,  to  give  over  the  attempt  on  his  discretion,  I  suf- 
fered St.  John  to  turn  the  conversation  upon  other  topics, 
and  as  these  were  not  much  to  the  existent  humour  of  my 
mind,  I  soon  rose  to  depart. 

"Stay,  Count,"  said  St.  John;  "shall  you  ride  to-day?" 

"If  you  will  bear  me  company." 

"  Volontiers, —  to  say  the  truth,  I  was  about  to  ask  you  to 
canter  your  bay  horse  with  me  first  to  Spring  Gardens,  ^  where 
I  have  a  promise  to  make  to  the  director;  and,  secondly,  on  a 
mission  of  charity  to  a  poor  foreigner  of  rank  and  birth,  who, 
in  his  profound  ignorance  of  this  countrj',  thought  it  right  to 
enter  into  a  plot  with  some  wise  heads,  and  to  reveal  it  to 
some  foolish  tongues,  who  brought  it  to  us  with  as  much 
clatter  as  if  it  were  a  second  gunpowder  project.  I  easily 
brought  him  off  that  scrape,  and  I  am  now  going  to  give  him 
a  caution  for  the  future.  Poor  gentleman,  I  hear  that  he  is 
grievously  distressed  in  pecuniary  matters,  and  I  always  had 
a  kindness  for  exiles.  Who  knows  but  that  a  state  of  exile 
may  be  our  own  fate '  and  this  alien  is  sprung  from  a  race  as 
haughty  as  that  of  St.  John  or  of  Devereux.  The  res  an- 
gusta  domi  must  gall  him  sorely!" 

"  True, "  said  I,  slowly.  "  What  may  be  the  name  of  the 
foreigner?  " 

"  Why  —  complain  not  hereafter  that  I  do  not  trust  you  in 
state  matters  —  I  will  indulge  —  D' Alvarez  —  Don  Diego,  — a 
hidalgo  of  the  best  blood  of  Andalusia ;  and  not  unworthy  of  it, 
I  fancy,  in  the  virtues  of  fighting,  though  he  may  be  in  those 
of  council.    But  —  Heavens!    Devereux  —  you  seem  ill!" 

"No,  no!     Have  you  ever  seen  this  man?" 

"Never." 

At  this  word  a  thrill  of  joy  shot  across  me,  for  I  knew  St. 
John's  fame  for  gallantry,  and  I  was  suspicious  of  the  motives 
of  his  visit. 

"St.  John,  I  know  this  Spaniard;  I  know  him  well,  and 

of  the  history  of  that  time.     That  negotiations  xcere  carried  on,  both  by 
Harley  and  by  St.  John,  very  largely,  and  very  closely,  I  need  not  say  that 
there  is  no  doubt, 
i  VauxhalL 


DEVEREUX.  147 

intimately.  Could  you  not  commission  me  to  do  your  errand, 
and  deliver  your  caution?  Relief  from  me  he  might  accept; 
from  you,  as  a  stranger,  pride  might  forbid  it;  and  you  would 
really  confer  on  me  a  personal  and  essential  kindness,  if  you 
would  give  me  so  fair  an  opportunity  to  confer  kindness  upon 
him." 

"Very  well,  I  am  delighted  to  oblige  you  in  any  way. 
Take  his  direction;  you  see  his  abode  is  in  a  very  pitiful  siib- 
urb.  Tell  him  from  me  that  he  is  quite  safe  at  present;  but 
tell  him  also  to  avoid,  henceforth,  all  imprudence,  all  connec- 
tion with  priests,  plotters,  et  tons  ces  gens-la,  as  he  values 
his  personal  safety,  or  at  least  his  continuance  in  this  most 
hospitable  country.  It  is  not  from  every  Avood  that  we  make 
a  Mercury,  nor  from  every  brain  that  we  can  carve  a  Mer- 
cury's genius  of  intrigue." 

"Nobody  ought  to  be  better  skilled  in  the  materials  requi- 
site for  such  productions  than  Mr.  Secretary  St.  John!  "  said 
I;  "and  now,  adieu." 

"Adieu,  if  you  will  not  ride  with  me.  "We  meet  at  Sir 
William  Wyndham's  to-morrow." 

Masking  my  agitation  till  I  was  alone,  I  rejoiced  when  I 
found  myself  in  the  open  streets.  I  summoned  a  hackney- 
coach,  and  drove  as  rapidly  as  the  vehicle  would  permit  to 
the  petty  and  obscure  suburb  to  which  St.  John  had  directed 
me.  The  coach  stopped  at  the  door  of  a  very  humble  but  not 
absolutely  wretched  abode.  I  knocked  at  the  door.  A  woman 
opened  it,  and,  in  answer  to  my  inquiries,  told  me  that  the 
poor  foreign  gentleman  was  very  ill, — very  ill  indeed, —  had 
suffered  a  paralytic  stroke,  —  not  expected  to  live.  His 
daughter  was  with  him  now, — would  see  no  one,  —  even  Mr, 
Barnard  had  been  denied  admission. 

At  that  name  my  feelings,  shocked  and  stunned  at  first  by 
the  unexpected  intelligence  of  the  poor  Spaniard's  danger, 
felt  a  sudden  and  fierce  revulsion.  I  combated  it.  "  This  is 
no  time,"  I  thought,  "for  any  jealous,  for  any  selfish,  emotion. 
If  I  can  serve  her,  if  I  can  relieve  her  father,  let  me  be  con- 
tented." —  "  She  will  see  me,"  I  said  aloud,  and  I  slipped  some 
money  in  the  woman's  hand.     "I  am  an  old  friend  of  the 


148  DEVEREUX. 

family,  and  I  shall  not  be  an  unwelcome  intruder  on  the  sick- 
room of  the  sufferer." 

"Intruder,  sir,  —  bless  you,  the  poor  gentleman  is  quite 
speechless  and  insensible." 

At  hearing  this  I  could  refrain  no  longer.  Isora's  discon- 
solate, solitary,  destitute  condition  broke  irresistibly  upon 
me,  and  all  scruple  of  more  delicate  and  formal  nature  van- 
ished at  once.  I  ascended  the  stairs,  followed  by  the  old 
woman  —  she  stopped  me  by  the  threshold  of  a  room  on  the 
second  floor,  and  whispered  "  There  !  "  I  paused  an  instant, 
—  collected  breath  and  courage,  and  entered.  The  room  was 
partially  darkened.  The  curtains  were  drawn  closely  around 
the  bed.  By  a  table,  on  which  stood  two  or  three  phials  of 
medicine,  I  beheld  Isora,  listening  with  an  eager,  a  most 
eager  and  intent  face  to  a  man  whose  garb  betrayed  his  heal- 
ing profession,  and  who,  laying  a  finger  on  the  outstretched 
palm  of  his  other  hand,  appeared  giving  his  precise  instruc- 
tions, and  uttering  that  oracular  breath  which  —  mere  human 
words  to  him  —  was  a  message  of  fate  itself, —  a  fiat  on  which 
hung  all  that  makes  life  life  to  his  trembling  and  devout  lis- 
tener. Monarchs  of  earth,  ye  have  not  so  supreme  a  power 
over  woe  and  happiness  as  one  village  leech!  As  he  turned  to 
leave  her,  she  drew  from  a  most  slender  purse  a  few  petty 
coins,  and  I  saw  that  she  muttered  some  words  indicative  of 
the  shame  of  poverty,  as  she  tremblingly  tended  them  to  the 
outstretched  palm.  Twice  did  that  palm  close  and  open  on  the 
paltry  sum ;  and  the  third  time  the  native  instinct  of  the  heart 
overcame  the  later  impulse  of  the  profession.  The  limb  of 
Galen  drew  back,  and  shaking  with  a  gentle  oscillation  his 
capitalian  honours,  he  laid  the  money  softly  on  the  table,  and 
buttoning  up  the  pouch  of  his  nether  garment,  as  if  to  resist 
temptation,  he  pressed  the  poor  hand  still  extended  towards 
him,  and  bowing  over  it  with  a  kind  respect  for  which  I  did 
long  to  approach  and  kiss  his  most  withered  and  undainty 
cheek,  he  turned  quickly  round,  and  almost  fell  against  me  in 
the  abstracted  hurry  of  his  exit. 

"Hush!  "  said  I,  softly.     "What  hope  of  your  patient?" 

The  leech  glanced  at  me  meaningly,  and  I  whispered  to 


DEVEREUX.  149 

Iiim  to  wait  for  me  below.  Isora  had  not  yet  seen  me.  It  is 
a  notable  distinction  in  the  feelings,  that  all  but  the  solitary 
one  of  grief  sharpen  into  exquisite  edge  the  keenness  of  the 
senses,  but  grief  blunts  them  to  a  most  dull  obtuseness.  I 
hesitated  now  to  come  forward;  and  so  I  stood,  hat  in  hand, 
by  the  door,  and  not  knowing  that  the  tears  streamed  down 
my  cheeks  as  1  fixed  my  gaze  upon  Isora.  She  too  stood 
still,  just  where  the  leech  had  left  her,  with  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  ground,  and  her  head  drooping.  The  right  hand, 
which  the  man  had  pressed,  had  sunk  slowly  and  heavily  by 
her  side,  with  the  small  snowy  fingers  half  closed  over  the 
palm.  There  is  no  describing  the  despondency  which  the 
listless  position  of  that  hand  spoke,  and  the  left  hand  lay 
with  a  like  indolence  of  sorrow  on  the  table,  with  one  finger 
outstretched  and  pointing  towards  the  phials,  just  as  it  had, 
some  moments  before,  seconded  the  injunctions  of  the  prim 
physician.  Well,  for  my  part,  if  I  were  a  painter  I  would 
come  now  and  then  to  a  sick  chamber  for  a  study. 

At  last  Isora,  with  a  very  quiet  gesture  of  self-recovery, 
moved  towards  the  bed,  and  the  next  moment  I  was  by  her 
side.  If  my  life  depended  on  it,  I  could  not  write  one,  no, 
not  one  syllable  more  of  this  scene. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

CONTAINING   MORE   THAN  ANY  OTHER   CHAPTER  IN  THE  SECOND 
BOOK    OF    THIS    HISTORY. 

My  first  proposal  was  to  remove  the  patient,  with  all  due 
care  and  gentleness,  to  a  better  lodging,  and  a  district  more 
convenient  for  the  visits  of  the  most  eminent  physicians. 
When  I  expressed  this  wish  to  Isora,  she  looked  at  me  long 
and  wistfully,  and  then  burst  into  tears.  "  You  will  not  de- 
ceive us,"  said  she,  "and  I  accept  your  kindness  at  once, — 
from  him  I  rejected  the  same  offer." 


150  DEVEREUX. 

"Him?  —  of  whom  speak  you?  —  this  Barnard,  or  rather  — 
but  I  know  him!  "  A  startling  expression  passed  over  Isora's 
speaking  face. 

"Know  him!"  she  cried,  interrupting  me,  "you  do  not, — 
you  cannot ! " 

"Take  courage,  dearest  Isora, —  if  I  may  so  dare  to  call 
you, —  take  courage:  it  is  fearful  to  have  a  rival  in  that  quar- 
ter; but  I  am  prepared  for  it.  This  Barnard,  tell  me  again, 
do  you  love  him?" 

"Love  — 0  God,  no!" 

"What  then?  do  you  still  fear  him? — fear  him,  too,  pro- 
tected by  the  unsleeping  eye  and  the  vigilant  hand  of  a  love 
like  mine?" 

"  Yes !  "  she  said  falteringly,  "  I  fear  for  yoit !  " 

"  Me ! "  I  cried,  laughing  scornfully,  "  me !  nay,  dearest, 
there  breathes  not  that  man  whom  you  need  fear  on  my  ac- 
count.     But,   answer  me;    is  not — ■" 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  for  mercy's  sake!"  cried  Isora,  ea- 
gerly, "do  not  question  me;  I  may  not  tell  you  who,  or 
what  this  man  is;  I  am  bound,  by  a  most  solemn  oath,  never 
to  divulge  that  secret." 

"I  care  not,"  said  I,  calmly,  "I  want  no  confirmation  of 
my  knowledge :  this  masked  rival  is  my  own  brother !  " 

I  fixed  my  eyes  full  on  Isora  while  I  said  this,  and  she 
quailed  beneath  my  gaze:  her  cheek,  her  lips,  were  utterly 
without  colour,  and  an  expression  of  sickening  and  keen  an- 
guish was  graven  upon  her  face.     She  made  no  answer. 

"Yes!  "  resumed  I,  bitterly,  "it  is  my  brother, —  be  it  so, — 
I  am  prepared;  but  if  you  can,  Isora,  say  one  word  to  deny 
it." 

Isora's  tongue  seemed  literally  to  cleave  to  her  mouth ;  at 
last  with  a  violent  effort,  she  muttered,  "I  have  told  you, 
Morton,  that  I  am  bound  by  oath  not  to  divulge  this  secret; 
nor  may  I  breathe  a  single  syllable  calculated  to  do  so, —  if  I 
deny  one  name,  you  may  question  me  on  more, —  and,  there- 
fore, to  deny  one  is  a  breach  of  my  oath.  But,  beware !  "  she 
added  vehemently,  "oh!  beware  how  your  suspicions —  mere 
vague,  baseless  suspicions  —  criminate  a  brother ;  and,  above 


DEVEREUX.  151 

all,  whomsoever  you  believe  to  be  the  real  being  under  this 
disguised  name,  as  you  value  your  life,  and  therefore  mine, — 
breathe  not  to  him  a  syllable  of  your  belief." 

I  was  so  struck  with  the  energy  with  which  this  was  said, 
that,  after  a  short  pause,  1  rejoined,  in  an  altered  tone, — 

"I  cannot  believe  that  I  have  aught  against  life  to  fear  from 
a  brother's  hand;  but  I  will  promise  you  to  guard  against 
latent  danger.  But  is  your  oath  so  peremptory  that  you 
cannot  deny  even  one  name?  —  if  not,  and  you  can  deny 
this,  I  swear  to  you  that  I  will  never  question  you  upon 
another. " 

Again  a  fierce  convulsion  wrung  the  lip  and  distorted  the 
perfect  features  of  Isora.  She  remained  silent  for  some  mo- 
ments, and  then  murmured,  "  My  oath  forbids  me  even  that 
single  answer:  tempt  me  no  more;  now,  and  forever,  I  am 
mute  upon  this  subject." 

Perhaps  some  slight  and  momentary  anger,  or  doubt,  or 
suspicion,  betrayed  itself  upon  my  countenance;  for  Isora, 
after  looking  upon  me  long  and  mournfully,  said,  in  a  quiet 
but  melancholy  tone,  "  I  see  your  thoughts,  and  I  do  not  re- 
proach you  for  them  —  it  is  natural  that  you  should  think  ill 
of  one  whom  this  mystery  surrounds,  — one  too  placed  under 
such  circumstances  of  humiliation  and  distrust.  I  have  lived 
long  in  your  country :  I  have  seen,  for  the  last  few  months, 
much  of  its  inhabitants ;  I  have  studied  too  the  works  which 
profess  to  unfold  its  national  and  peculiar  character:  I  know 
that  you  have  a  distrust  of  the  people  of  other  climates;  I 
know  that  you  are  cautious  and  full  of  suspicious  vigilance, 
even  in  your  commerce  with  each  other;  I  know,  too  [and 
Isora's  heart  swelled  visibly  as  she  spoke],  that  poverty  it- 
self, in  the  eyes  of  your  commercial  countrymen,  is  a  crime, 
and  that  they  rarely  feel  confidence  or  place  faith  in  those 
who  are  unhappy;  —  why,  Count  Devereux,  why  should  I  re- 
quire more  of  you  than  of  Ihe  rest  of  your  nation?  \Yhy 
should  you  think  better  of  the  penniless  and  friendless  girl, 
the  degraded  exile,  the  victim  of  doubt, — which  is  so  often 
the  disguise  of  guilt, — than  any  other,  any  one  even  among 
my  own  people,  would  think  of  one  so  mercilessly  deprived 


152  DEVEREUX. 

of  all  the  decent  and  appropriate  barriers  by  whicli  a  maiden 
should  be  surrounded?  No  —  no:  leave  me  as  you  found  me; 
leave  my  poor  father  where  you  see  him;  any  place  will  do 
for  us  to  die  in." 

"Isora!"  I  said,  clasping  her  in  my  arms,  "you  do  not 
know  me  yet:  had  I  found  you  in  prosperity,  and  in  the 
world's  honour;  had  I  wooed  you  in  your  father's  halls,  and 
girt  around  with  the  friends  and  kinsmen  of  your  race, —  I 
might  have  pressed  for  more  than  you  will  now  tell  me;  I 
might  have  indulged  suspicion  where  I  perceived  mystery, 
and  I  might  not  have  loved  as  I  love  you  now !  Note,  Isora, 
in  misfortune,  in  destitution,  I  place  without  reserve  my 
whole  heart  —  its  trust,  its  zeal,  its  devotion  —  in  your  keep- 
ing ;  come  evil  or  good,  storm  or  sunshine,  I  am  yours,  wholly 
and  forever.  Eeject  me  if  you  will,  I  will  return  to  you 
again;  and  never,  never  —  save  from  my  own  eyes  or  your 
own  lips  —  will  I  receive  a  single  evidence  detracting  from 
your  purity,  or,  Isora, — mine  own,  own  Isora, —  may  I  not 
add  also  —  from  your  love?  " 

"  Too,  too  generous !  "  murmured  Isora,  struggling  passion- 
ately with  her  tears,  "  may  Heaven  forsake  me  if  ever  I  am 
ungrateful  to  thee ;  and  believe  —  believe,  that  if  love  more 
fond,  more  true,  more  devoted  than  woman  ever  felt  before 
can  repay  you,  you  shall  be  repaid !  " 

Why,  at  that  moment,  did  my  heart  leap  so  joyously  within 
me?  —  why  did  I  say  inly, —  ''The  treasure  I  have  so  long 
yearned  for  is  found  at  last :  we  have  met,  and  through  the 
waste  of  years,  we  will  work  together,  and  never  part  again  "  ? 
Why,  at  that  moment  of  bliss,  did  I  not  rather  feel  a  foretaste 
of  the  coming  woe?  Oh,  blind  and  capricious  Fate,  that 
gives  us  a  presentiment  at  one  while  and  withholds  it  at  an- 
other! Knowledge,  and  Prudence,  and  calculating  Foresight, 
what  are  ye?  —  warnings  unto  others,  not  ourselves.  Reason 
is  a  lamp  which  sheddeth  afar  a  glorious  and  general  light, 
but  leaveth  all  that  is  around  it  in  darkness  and  in  gloom. 
We  foresee  and  foretell  the  destiny  of  others :  we  march  cred- 
ulous and  benighted  to  our  own;  and  like  Laocoon,  from  the 
very  altars  by  which  we  stand  as  the  soothsayer  and  the 


DEVEREUX.  153 

priest,  creep  forth,  unsuspected  and  undreamt  of,  the  serpents 
which  are  fated  to  destroy  us ! 

That  very  day,  then,  Alvarez  was  removed  to  a  lodging  more 
worthy  of  his  birth,  and  more  calculated  to  afford  hope  of  his 
recovery.  He  bore  the  removal  without  any  evident  signs  of 
fatigue;  but  his  dreadful  malady  had  taken  away  both  speech 
and  sense,  and  he  was  already  more  than  half  the  property 
of  the  grave.  I  sent,  however,  for  the  best  medical  advice 
which  London  could  afford.  They  met,  prescribed,  and  left 
the  patient  just  as  they  found  him.  I  know  not,  in  the  pro- 
gress of  science,  what  physicians  may  be  to  posterity,  but  in 
my  time  they  are  false  Avitnesses  subpoenaed  against  death, 
whose  testimony  always  tells  less  in  favour  of  the  plaintiff 
than  the  defendant. 

Before  we  left  the  poor  Spaniard's  former  lodging,  and 
when  I  was  on  the  point  of  giving  some  instructions  to  the 
landlady  respecting  the  place  to  which  the  few  articles  of 
property  belonging  to  Don  Diego  and  Isora  were  to  be  moved, 
Isora  made  me  a  sign  to  be  silent,  which  I  obeyed.  "  Pardon 
me,"  said  she  afterwards;  ''but  I  confess  that  I  am  anxious 
our  next  residence  should  not  be  known, —  should  not  be 
subject  to  the  intrusion  of  —  of  this  —  " 

"  Barnard,  as  you  call  him.  I  understand  you ;  be  it  so !  " 
and  accordingly  I  enjoined  the  goods  to  be  sent  to  my  own 
house,  whence  they  were  removed  to  Don  Diego's  new  abode: 
and  I  took  especial  care  to  leave  with  the  good  lady  no  clew 
to  discover  Alvarez  and  his  daughter,  otherwise  than  through 
me.  The  pleasure  afforded  me  of  directing  Gerald's  atten- 
tion to  myself,  I  could  not  resist.  "  Tell  Mr.  Barnard,  when 
he  calls, "  said  I,  "  that  only  through  Count  Morton  Devereux 
will  he  hear  of  Don  Diego  d'Alvarez  and  the  lady  his 
daughter." 

"I  will,  your  honour,"  said  the  landlady;  and  then  looking 
at  me  more  attentively,  she  added:  "Bless  me!  now  when 
you  speak,  there  is  a  very  strong  likeness  between  yourself 
and  Mr.  Barnard." 

I  recoiled  as  if  an  adder  had  stung  me,  and  hurried  into  the 
coach  to  support  the  patient,  who  was  already  placed  there. 


154  DEVEREUX. 

No"w  then  my  daily  post  was  by  the  bed  of  disease  and  suf- 
fering: in  the  chamber  of  death  was  my  vow  of  love  ratified; 
and  in  sadness  and  in  sorrow  was  it  returned.  But  it  is  in 
such  scenes  that  the  deepest,  the  most  endearing,  and  the 
most  holy  species  of  the  passion  is  engendered.  As  I  heard 
Isora's  low  voice  tremble  with  the  suspense  of  one  who  watches 
over  the  hourly  severing  of  the  affection  of  Nature  and  of  early 
years;  and  as  I  saw  her  light  step  flit  by  the  pillow  Avhich 
she  smoothed,  and  her  cheek  alternately  flush  and  fade,  in 
watching  the  wants  which  she  relieved;  as  I  marked  her 
mute,  her  unwearying  tenderness,  breaking  into  a  thousand 
nameless  but  mighty  cares,  and  pervading  like  an  angel's 
vigilance  every  —  yea,  the  minutest  —  course  into  which  it 
flowed, —  did  I  not  behold  her  in  that  sphere  in  which  woman 
is  most  lovely,  and  in  which  love  itself  consecrates  its  admi- 
ration and  purifies  its  most  ardent  desires?  That  was  not  a 
time  for  our  hearts  to  speak  audibly  to  each  other;  but  we 
felt  that  they  grew  closer  and  closer,  and  we  asked  not  for 
the  poor  eloquence  of  words.  But  over  this  scene  let  me  not 
linger. 

One  morning,  as  I  was  proceeding  on  foot  to  Isora's,  I  per- 
ceived on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way  Montreuil  and  Gerald : 
they  were  conversing  eagerly;  they  both  saw  me.  Montreuil 
made  a  slight,  quiet,  and  dignified  inclination  of  the  head: 
Gerald  coloured,  and  hesitated.  I  thought  he  was  about  to 
leave  his  companion  and  address  me;  but,  with  a  haughty 
and  severe  air,  I  passed  on,  and  Gerald,  as  if  stung  by  my 
demeanour,  bit  his  lip  vehemently  and  followed  my  example. 
A  few  minutes  afterwards  I  felt  an  inclination  to  regret  that 
I  had  not  afforded  him  an  opportunity  of  addressing  me,  "  I 
might, "  thought  I,  "  have  then  taunted  him  with  his  persecu- 
tion of  Isora,  and  defied  him  to  execute  those  threats  against 
me,  in  which  it  is  evident,  from  her  apprehensions  for  my 
safety,   that  he  indulged." 

I  had  not,  however,  much  leisure  for  these  thoughts.  When 
I  arrived  at  the  lodgings  of  Alvarez,  I  found  that  a  great 
change  had  taken  place  in  his  condition;  he  had  recovered 
speech,  though  imperfectly,  and  testified  a  return  to  sense.    I 


DEVEREUX.  155 

flew  upstairs  with  a  light  step  to  congratulate  Isora :  she  met 
me  at  the  door.  "  Hush !  "  she  whispered :  "  my  father  sleeps !  " 
But  she  did  not  speak  with  the  animation  I  had  anticipated. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  dearest?  "  said  I,  following  her  into 
another  apartment:  "you  seem  sad,  and  your  eyes  are  red 
with  tears,  which  are  not,  methinks,  entirely  the  tears  of  joy 
at  this  happy  change  in  your  father.  " 

"I  am  marked  out  for  suffering,"  returned  Isora,  more 
keenly  than  she  was  wont  to  speak.  I  pressed  her  to  explain 
her  meaning;  she  hesitated  at  first,  but  at  length  confessed 
that  her  father  had  always  been  anxious  for  her  marriage 
with  this  sol-disant  Barnard,  and  that  his  first  words  on  his 
recovery  had  been  to  press  her  to  consent  to  his  wishes. 

"My  poor  father,"  said  she,  weepingly,  "speaks  and  thinks 
only  for  my  fancied  good;  but  his  senses  as  yet  are  only  re- 
covered in  part,  and  he  cannot  even  understand  me  when  I 
speak  of  you.  *I  shall  die,'  he  said,  'I  shall  die,  and  you 
will  be  left  on  the  wide  world ! '  I  in  vain  endeavoured  to 
explain  to  him  that  I  should  have  a  protector :  he  fell  asleep 
muttering  those  words,  and  with  tears  in  his  eyes." 

"Does  he  know  as  much  of  this  Barnard  as  you  do?  "  said  I. 

"  Heavens,  no !  —  or  he  would  never  have  pressed  me  to 
marry  one  so  wicked." 

"Does  he  know  even  who  he  is?" 

"Yes!"  said  Isora,  after  a  pause;  "but  he  has  not  known 
it  long." 

Here  the  physician  joined  us,  and  taking  me  aside,  informed 
me  that,  as  he  had  foreboded,  sleep  had  been  the  harbinger 
of  death,  and  that  Don  Diego  was  no  more.  I  broke  the  news 
as  gently  as  I  could  to  Isora:  but  her  grief  was  far  more  vio- 
lent than  I  could  have  anticipated ;  and  nothing  seemed  to  cut 
her  so  deeply  to  the  heart  as  the  thought  that  his  last  wish 
had  been  one  with  which  she  had  not  complied,  and  could 
never  comply. 

I  pass  over  the  first  days  of  mourning :  I  come  to  the  one 
after  Don  Diego's  funeral.  I  had  been  with  Isora  in  the 
morning;  I  left  her  for  a  few  hours,  and  returned  at  the  first 
dusk  of  evening  with  some  books  and  music,  which  I  vainly 


156  DEYEREUX. 

hoped  siie  might  recur  to  for  a  momentary  abstraction  from 
her  grief.  I  dismissed  my  carriage,  with  the  intention  of 
walking  home,  and  addressing  the  woman-servant  who  ad- 
mitted me,  inquired,  as  was  my  wont,  after  Isora.  "  She  has 
been  very  ill,"  replied  the  woman,  "ever  since  the  strange 
gentleman  left  her." 

"The  strange  gentleman?" 

Yes,  he  had  forced  his  way  upstairs,  despite  of  the  denial 
the  servant  had  been  ordered  to  give  to  all  strangers.  He 
had  entered  Isora's  room;  and  the  woman,  in  answer  to  my 
urgent  inquiries,  added  that  she  had  heard  his  voice  raised 
to  a  loud  and  harsh  key  in  the  apartment;  he  had  stayed 
there  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  had  then  hurried  out, 
seemingly  in  great  disorder  and  agitation. 

"What  description  of  man  was  he?"  I  asked. 

The  woman  answered  that  he  was  mantled  from  head  to 
foot  in  his  cloak,  which  was  richly  laced,  and  his  hat  was 
looped  with  diamonds,  but  slouched  over  that  part  of  his  face 
which  the  collar  of  his  cloak  did  not  hide,  so  that  she  could 
not  further  describe  him  than  as  one  of  a  haughty  and  abrupt 
bearing,  and  evidently  belonging  to  the  higher  ranks. 

Convinced  that  Gerald  had  been  the  intruder,  I  hastened 
up  the  stairs  to  Isora.  She  received  me  with  a  sickly  and 
faint  smile,  and  endeavoured  to  conceal  the  traces  of  her 
tears. 

"So!"  said  I,  "this  insolent  persecutor  of  yours  has  dis- 
covered your  abode,  and  again  insulted  or  intimidated  you. 
He  shall  do  so  no  more!  I  will  seek  him  to-morrow;  and 
no  affinity  of  blood  shall  prevent  — " 

"  Morton,  dear  Morton ! "  cried  Isora,  in  great  alarm,  and 
yet  with  a  certain  determination  stamped  upon  her  features, 
"  hear  me !  It  is  true  this  man  has  been  here ;  it  is  true  that, 
fearful  and  terrible  as  he  is,  he  has  agitated  and  alarmed  me : 
but  it  was  only  for  you,  Morton, —  by  the  Holy  Virgin,  it  was 
only  for  j'ou!  'The  moment,'  said  he,  and  his  voice  ran  shiv- 
eringly  through  my  heart  like  a  dagger,  'the  moment  Mor- 
ton Devereux  discovers  who  is  his  rival,  that  moment  his 
death-warrant  is  irrevocably  sealed ! '  " 


DEVEREUX.  157 

"Arrogant  boaster!"  I  cried,  and  my  blood  burned  with 
the  intense  rage  which  a  much  slighter  cause  would  have  kin- 
dled from  the  natural  fierceness  of  my  temper.  "Does  he 
think  my  life  is  at  his  bidding,  to  allow  or  to  withhold?  Un- 
hand me,  Isora,  unhand  me !  I  tell  you  I  will  seek  him  this 
moment,  and  dare  him  to  do  his  worst !  " 

"Do  so,"  said  Isora,  calmly,  and  releasing  her  hold;  "do 
so ;  but  hear'  me  first  •  the  moment  you  breathe  to  him  your 
suspicions  you  place  an  eternal  barrier  betwixt  yourself  and 
me !  Pledge  me  your  faith  that  you  will  never,  while  I  live 
at  least,  reveal  to  him  —  to  any  one  whom  you  suspect  —  your 
reproach,  your  defiance,  your  knowledge  —  nay,  not  even  your 
lightest  suspicion  —  of  his  identity  with  my  persecutor ;  prom- 
ise me  this,  Morton  Devereux,  or  I,  in  my  turn,  before  that 
crucifix,  whose  sanctity  we  both  acknowledge  and  adore, — 
that  crucifix  which  has  descended  to  my  race  for  three  un- 
broken centuries,  —  which,  for  my  departed  father,  in  the  sol- 
emn vow,  and  in  the  death-agony,  has  still  been  a  witness,  a 
consolation,  and  a  pledge,  between  the  soul  and  its  Creator, 
—  by  that  crucifix  which  my  dying  mother  clasped  to  her 
bosom  when  she  committed  me,  an  infant,  to  the  care  of  that 
Heaven  which  hears  and  records  forever  our  lightest  word, 
^I  swear  that  I  will  never  be  yours ! " 

"  Isora ! "  said  I,  awed  and  startled,  yet  struggling  against 
the  impression  her  energy  had  made  upon  me,  "you  know  not 
to  what  you  pledge  yourself,  nor  what  you  require  of  me. 
If  I  do  not  seek  out  this  man,  if  I  do  not  expose  to  him  my 
knowledge  of  his  pursuit  and  unhallowed  persecution  of  you, 
if  I  do  not  effectually  prohibit  and  prevent  their  continuance, 
think  well,  what  security  have  I  for  your  future  peace  of 
mind, —  nay,  even  for  the  safety  of  your  honour  or  your  life? 
A  man  thus  bold,  daring  and  unbaffled  in  his  pursuit,  thus 
vigilant  and  skilful  in  his  selection  of  time  and  occasion,  —  so 
that,  despite  my  constant  and  anxious  endeavour  to  meet  him 
in  your  presence,  I  have  never  been  able  to  do  so, —  from  a 
man,  I  say,  thus  pertinacious  in  resolution,  thus  crafty  in 
disguise,  what  may  you  not  dread  when  you  leave  him  utterly 
fearless  by  the  license  of  impunity?     Think  too,  again,  Isora, 


158  DEVEREUX. 

that  the  mystery  dishonours  as  much  as  the  danger  menaces. 
Is  it  meet  that  my  betrothed  and  my  future  bride  should  be 
subjected  to  these  secret  and  terrible  visitations,  —  visitations 
of  a  man  professing  himself  her  lover,  and  evincing  the  vehe- 
mence of  his  passion  by  that  of  his  pursuit?  Isora  —  Isora  — 
you  have  not  weighed  these  things ;  you  know  not  what  you 
demand  of  me." 

"I  do!  "  answered  Isora;  "I  do  know  all  that  I  demand  of 
you;  I  demand  of  you  only  to  preserve  your  life." 

"  How, "  said  I,  impatiently,  "  cannot  my  hand  preserve  my 
life?  and  is  it  for  you,  the  daughter  of  a  line  of  warriors,  to 
ask  your  lover  and  your  husband  to  shrink  from  a  single 
foe?" 

"No,  Morton,"  answered  Isora.  "Were  you  going  to  bat- 
tle, I  would  gird  on  your  sword  myself ;  were,  too,  this  man 
other  than  he  is,  and  you  were  about  to  meet  him  in  open 
contest,  I  would  not  wrong  you,  nor  degrade  your  betrothed, 
by  a  fear.  But  I  know  my  persecutor  well, —  iierce,  unre- 
lenting,—  dreadful  in  his  dark  and  ungovernable  passions  as 
he  is,  he  has  not  the  courage  to  confront  you:  I  fear  not  the 
open  foe,  but  the  lurking  and  sure  assassin.  His  very  ear- 
nestness to  avoid  you,  the  precautions  he  has  taken,  are  alone 
sufficient  to  convince  you  that  he  dreads  personally  to  oppose 
your  claim  or  to  vindicate  himself." 

"Then  what  have  I  to  fear?  " 

"Everything!  Do  you  not  know  that  from  men,  at  once 
fierce,  crafty,  and  shrinking  from  bold  violence,  the  stuff  for 
assassins  is  always  made?  And  if  I  wanted  surer  proof  of 
his  designs  than  inference,  his  oath  —  it  rings  in  my  ears  now 
—  is  sufficient.  'The  moment  Morton  Devereux  discovers 
who  is  his  rival,  that  moment  his  death-warrant  is  irrevoca- 
bly sealed.'  Morton,  I  demand  your  promise;  or,  though  my 
heart  break,  I  will  record  my  own  vow." 

"  Stay  —  stay, "  I  said,  in  anger,  and  in  sorrow :  "  were  I  to 
promise  this,  and  for  my  own  safety  hazard  yours,  what 
could  you  deem  me?" 

"Fear  not  for  me,  Morton,"  answered  Isora;  "you  have  no 
cause.     I  tell  you  that  this  man,  villain  as  he  is,  ever  leaves 


DEVEREUX.  159 

me  humbled  and  abased.  Do  not  think  that  in  all  times,  and 
all  scenes,  I  am  the  foolish  and  weak  creature  you  behold  me 
now.  Kemember  that  you  said  rightly  I  was  the  daughter 
of  a  line  of  warriors;  and  I  have  that  within  me  which  will 
not  shame  my  descent." 

"  But,  dearest,  your  resolution  may  avail  you  for  a  time ; 
but  it  cannot  forever  baffle  the  hardened  nature  of  a  man. 
I  know  mj'  own  sex,  and  I  know  my  own  ferocity,  were  it 
once  aroused." 

"But,  Morton,  you  do  not  know  me,"  said  Isora,  proudly, 
and  her  face,  as  she  spoke,  was  set,  and  even  stern :  "I  am 
only  the  coward  when  I  think  of  you;  a  word  —  a  look  of 
mine  —  can  abash  this  man;  or,  if  it  could  not,  I  am  never 
without  a  weapon  to  defend  myself,  or  —  or  —  "  Isora's  voice, 
before  firm  and  collected,  now  faltered,  and  a  deep  blush 
flowed  over  the  marble  paleness  of  her  face. 

"Or  what?"  said  I,  anxiously. 

"Or  thee,  Morton!"  murmured  Isora,  tenderly,  and  with- 
drawing her  eyes  from  mine. 

The  tone,  the  look  that  accompanied  these  words,  melted 
me  at  once.     I  rose, —  I  clasped  Isora  to  my  heart. 

"You  are  a  strange  compound,  my  own  fairy  queen;  but 
these  lips,  this  cheek,  those  eyes,  are  not  fit  features  for  a 
heroine." 

"  jVIorton,  if  I  had  less  determination  in  my  heart,  I  could 
not  love  you  so  well." 

"But  tell  me,"  I  whispered,  with  a  smile,  "where  is  this 
weapon  on  which  you  rely  so  strongly?  " 

"Here!"  answered  Isora,  blushingly;  and,  extricating  her- 
self from  me,  she  showed  me  a  small  two-edged  dagger, 
which  she  wore  carefully  concealed  between  the  folds  of  her 
dress.  I  looked  over  the  bright,  keen  blade,  with  surprise, 
and  yet  with  pleasure,  at  the  latent  resolution  of  a  character 
seemingly  so  soft.  I  say  with  pleasure,  for  it  suited  well 
with  my  own  fierce  and  wild  temper.  I  returned  the  weapon 
to  her,  with  a  smile  and  a  jest. 

"  Ah !  "  said  Isora,  shrinking  from  my  kiss,  "  I  should  not 
have  been  so  bold,  if  I  only  feared  danger  for  myself." 


160  DEVEREUX. 

But  if,  for  a  moment,  we  forgot,  in  the  gushings  of  our 
affection,  the  object  of  our  converse  and  dispute,  we  soon  re- 
turned to  it  again.  Isora  was  the  first  to  recur  to  it.  She 
reminded  me  of  the  promise  she  required;  and  she  spoke  with 
a  seriousness  and  a  solemnity  whicli  I  found  myself  scarcely 
able  to  resist. 

"  But, "  I  said,  "  if  he  ever  molest  you  hereafter ;  if  again  I 
find  that  bright  cheek  blanched,  and  those  dear  eyes  dimmed 
with  tears ;  and  I  know  that,  in  my  own  house,  some  one  has 
dared  thus  to  insult  its  queen, —  am  I  to  be  still  torpid  and 
inactive,  lest  a  dastard  and  craven  hand  should  avenge  my 
assertion  of  your  honour  and  mine?" 

"No,  Morton;  after  our  marriage,  whenever  that  be,  you 
will  have  nothing  to  apprehend  from  him  on  the  same  ground 
as  before ;  my  fear  for  you,  too,  will  not  be  what  it  is  now ; 
your  honour  will  be  bound  in  mine,  and  nothing  shall  induce 
me  to  hazard  it, —  no,  not  even  your  safety.  I  have  every 
reason  to  believe  that,  after  that  event,  he  will  subject  me  no 
longer  to  his  insults:  how,  indeed,  can  he,  under  your  per- 
petual protection?  or,  for  what  cause  should  he  attempt  it, 
if  he  could?  I  shall  be  then  yours, —  only  and  ever  yours; 
what  hope  could,  therefore,  then  nerve  his  hardihood  or  in- 
stigate his  intrusions?  Trust  to  me  at  that  time,  and  suffer 
me  to  —  nay,  I  repeat,  promise  me  that  I  may  —  trust  in  you 
now ! " 

What  could  I  do?  I  still  combated  her  wish  and  her  re- 
quest; but  her  steadiness  and  rigidity  of  jDurpose  made  me, 
though  reluctantly,  yield  to  them  at  last.  So  sincere,  and 
so  stern,  indeed,  appeared  her  resolution,  that  I  feared,  by 
refusal,  that  she  would  take  the  rash  oath  that  would  sepa- 
rate us  forever.  Added  to  this,  I  felt  in  her  that  confidence 
which,  I  am  apt  to  believe,  is  far  more  akin  to  the  latter 
stages  of  real  love  than  jealousy  and  mistrust;  and  I  could 
not  believe  that  either  now,  or,  still  less  after  our  nuptials, 
she  would  risk  aught  of  honour,  or  the  seemings  of  honour, 
from  a  visionary  and  superstitious  fear.  In  spite,  therefore, 
of  my  deep  and  keen  interest  in  the  thorough  discovery  of 
this  mysterious  persecution;  and,  still  more,  in  the  preveu- 


DEVEREUX.  161 

tion  of  all  future  designs  from  his  audacity,  I  constrained 
myself  to  promise  her  that  I  "would  on  no  account  seek  out 
the  person  I  suspected,  or  wilfully  betray  to  him  by  word  or 
deed  my  belief  of  his  identity  with  Barnard. 

Though  greatly  dissatisfied  with  my  self-compulsion,  I 
strove  to  reconcile  myself  to  its  idea.  Indeed,  there  was 
much  in  the  peculiar  circumstances  of  Isora,  much  in  the 
freshness  of  her  present  affliction,  much  in  the  unfriended 
and  utter  destitution  of  her  situation,  that,  while  on  the  one 
hand,  it  called  forth  her  pride,  and  made  stubborn  that 
temper  which  was  naturally  so  gentle  and  so  soft;  on  the 
other  hand,  made  me  yield  even  to  wishes  that  I  thought  un- 
reasonable, and  consider  rather  the  delicacy  and  deference  due 
to  her  condition,  than  insist  upon  the  sacrifices  which,  in  more 
fortunate  circumstances,  I  might  have  imagined  due  to  my- 
self. Still  more  indisposed  to  resist  her  wish  and  expose 
myself  to  its  penalty  was  I,  when  I  considered  her  desire  was 
the  mere  excess  and  caution  of  her  love,  and  when  I  felt  that 
she  spoke  sincerely  when  she  declared  that  it  was  only  for 
me  that  she  was  the  coward.  Nevertheless,  and  despite  all 
these  considerations,  it  was  with  a  secret  discontent  that  I 
took  my  leave  of  her,  and  departed  homeward. 

I  had  just  reached  the  end  of  the  street  where  the  house 
was  situated,  when  I  saw  there,  very  imperfectly,  for  the 
night  was  extremely  dark,  the  figure  of  a  man  entirely  envel- 
oped in  a  long  cloak,  such  as  was  comm^only  worn  by  gallants 
in  affairs  of  secrecy  or  intrigue ;  and,  in  the  pale  light  of  a 
single  lamp  near  which  he  stood,  something  like  the  bril- 
liance of  gems  glittered  on  the  large  Spanish  hat  which  over- 
hung his  brow.  I  immediately  recalled  the  description  the 
woman  had  given  me  'of  Barnard's  dress,  and  the  thought 
flashed  across  me  that  it  was  he  whom  I  beheld.  "At  all 
events,"  thought  I,  "I  may  confirm  my  doubts,  if  I  may  not 
communicate  them,  and  I  may  watch  over  her  safety  if  I  may 
not  avenge  her  injuries."  I  therefore  took  advantage  of  my 
knowledge  of  the  neighbourhood,  passed  the  stranger  with  a 
quick  step,  and  then,  running  rapidly,  returned  by  a  cir- 
cuitous route  to  the  mouth  of  a  narrow  and  dark  street,  which 

11 


162  DEVEREUX. 

was  exactly  opposite  to  Isora's  house.  Here  I  concealed  m}'- 
self  by  a  projecting  porch,  and  I  had  not  waited  long  before  I 
saw  the  dim  form  of  the  stranger  walk  slowly  by  the  house. 
He  passed  it  three  or  four  times,  and  each  time  I  thought  — 
though  the  darkness  might  deceive  me  —  thab  he  looked  up  to 
the  windows.  He  made,  however,  no  attempt  at  admission, 
and  appeared  as  if  he  had  no  other  object  than  that  of  watch- 
ing by  the  house.  Wearied  and  impatient  at  last,  I  came 
from  my  concealment.  "I  may  confirm  my  suspicions,"  I 
repeated,  recurring  to  my  oath,  and  I  walked  straight  towards 
the  stranger. 

"Sir,"  I  said  very  calmly,  "I  am  the  last  person  in  the 
world  to  interfere  with  the  amusements  of  any  other  gentle- 
man; but  I  humbly  opine  that  no  man  can  parade  by  this 
house  upon  so  very  cold  a  night,  without  giving  just  ground 
for  suspicion  to  the  friends  of  its  inhabitants.  I  happen  to 
be  among  that  happy  number;  and  I  therefore,  with  all  due 
humility  and  respect,  venture  to  request  you  to  seek  some 
other  spot  for  your  nocturnal  perambulations." 

I  made  this  speech  purposely  prolix,  in  order  to  have  time 
fully  to  reconnoitre  the  person  of  the  one  I  addressed.  The 
dusk  of  the  night,  and  the  loose  garb  of  the  stranger,  certainly 
forbade  any  decided  success  to  this  scrutiny;  but  methought 
the  figure  seemed,  despite  of  my  prepossessions,  to  want  the 
stately  height  and  grand  proportions  of  Gerald  Devereux.  I 
must  own,  however,  that  the  necessary  inexactitude  of  my 
survey  rendered  this  idea  without  just  foundation,  and  did 
not  by  any  means  diminish  my  firm  impression  that  it  was 
Gerald  whom  I  beheld.  "While  I  spoke,  he  retreated  with  a 
quick  step,  but  made  no  answer.  I  pressed  upon  him:  he 
backed  with  a  still  quicker  step;  and  Avhen  I  had  ended,  he 
fairly  turned  round,  and  made  at  full  speed  along  the  dark 
street  in  which  I  had  fixed  my  previous  post  of  watch.  I  fled 
after  him,  with  a  step  as  fleet  as  his  own :  his  cloak  encum- 
bered his  flight;  I  gained  upon  him  sensibly;  he  turned  a 
sharp  corner,  threw  me  out,  and  entered  into  a  broad  thor- 
oughfare. As  I  sped  after  him,  Bacchanalian  voices  burst 
upon  my  ear,  and  presently  a  large  band  of  those  youug  men 


DEVEREUX.  103 

who,  under  the  name  of  Mohawks,  were  wont  to  scour  the 
town  nightly,  and,  sword  in  hand,  to  exercise  their  love  of 
riot  under  the  disguise  of  party  zeal,  became  visible  in  the 
middle  of  the  street.  Through  them  my  fugitive  dashed 
headlong,  and,  profiting  by  their  surprise,  escaped  unmo- 
lested. I  attempted  to  follow  with  equal  speed,  but  was  less 
successful.  "  Hallo !  "  cried  the  foremost  of  the  group,  plac- 
ing himself  in  my  way. 

"No  such  haste!  Art  Whig  or  Tory?  Under  which  king, 
Bezonian?  speak  or  die!  " 

"Have  a  care.  Sir,"  said  I,  fiercely,  drawing  my  sword. 

"Treason,  treason!  "  cried  the  speaker,  confronting  me  with 
equal  readiness.   "Have  a  care,  indeed!  have  at  thee.'''' 

"Ha!"  cried  another,  "'tis  a  Tory;  'tis  the  Secretary's 
popish  friend,  Devereux:  pike  him,  pike  him." 

I  had  already  run  my  opponent  through  the  sword  arm, 
and  was  in  hopes  that  this  act  would  intimidate  the  rest,  and 
allow  my  escape ;  but  at  the  sound  of  my  name  and  political 
bias,  coupled  with  the  drawn  blood  of  their  confederate,  the 
patriots  rushed  upon  me  with  that  amiable  fury  generally 
characteristic  of  all  true  lovers  of  their  country.  Two  swords 
l^assed  through  my  body  simultaneously,  and  I  fell  bleeding 
and  insensible  to  the  ground.  "When  I  recovered  I  was  in 
my  own  apartments,  whither  two  of  the  gentler  Mohawks 
had  conveyed  me:  the  surgeons  were  by  my  bedside;  I 
groaned  audibly  when  I  saw  them.  If  there  is  a  thing  in  the 
world  I  hate,  it  is  in  any  shape  the  disciples  of  Hermes ;  they 
always  remind  me  of  that  Indian  people  (the  Padaei,  I  think) 
mentioned  by  Herodotus,  who  sustained  themselves  by  de- 
vouring the  sick.  "All  is  well,"  said  one,  when  my  groan 
was  heard.  "He  will  not  die,"  said  another.  "At  least  not 
till  we  have  had  more  fees,"  said  a  third,  more  candid  than 
the  rest.  And  thereupon  they  seized  me  and  began  torturing 
my  wounds  anew,  till  I  fainted  away  with  the  pain.  However, 
the  next  day  I  was  declared  out  of  immediate  danger ;  and  the 
first  proof  I  gave  of  my  convalescence  was  to  make  Desmarais 
discharge  four  surgeons  out  of  five :  the  remaining  one  I  thought 
my  youth  and  constitution  might  enable  me  to  endure. 


164  DEVEREUX. 

That  very  evening,  as  I  was  turning  restlessly  in  my  bed, 
and  muttering  with  parched  lips  the  name  of  "Isora,"  I  saw 
by  my  side  a  figure  covered  from  head  to  foot  in  a  long  veil, 
and  a  voice,  low,  soft,  but  thrilling  through  my  heart  like  a 
new  existence,  murmured,  "  She  is  here !  " 

I  forgot  my  wounds ;  I  forgot  my  pain  and  my  debility ;  I 
sprang  upwards:  the  stranger  drew  aside  the  veil  from  her 
countenance,   and  I  beheld  Isora! 

"  Yes ! "  said  she,  in  her  own  liquid  and  honeyed  accents, 
which  fell  like  balm  upon  my  wound  and  my  spirit,  "yes, 
she  whom  you  have  hitherto  tended  is  come,  in  her  turn,  to 
render  some  slight  but  woman's  services  to  you.  She  has 
come  to  nurse,  and  to  soothe,  and  to  pray  for  you,  and  to  be, 
till  you  yourself  discard  her,  your  handmaid  and  your  slave !  " 

I  would  have  answered,  but  raising  her  finger  to  her  lips, 
she  arose  and  vanished ;  but  from  that  hour  my  wound  healed, 
my  fever  slaked,  and  whenever  I  beheld  her  flitting  round 
my  bed,  or  watching  over  me,  or  felt  her  cool  fingers  wiping 
the  dew  from  my  brow,  or  took  from  her  hand  my  medicine 
or  my  food,  in  those  moments,  the  blood  seemed  to  make  a 
new  struggle  through  my  veins,  and  I  felt  palpably  within 
me  a  fresh  and  delicious  life  —  a  life  full  of  youth  and  pas- 
sion and  hope  —  replace  the  vaguer  and  duller  being  which  I 
had  hitherto  borne. 

There  are  some  extraordinary  incongruities  in  that  very 
mysterious  thing  symipatliy.  One  would  imagine  that,  in  a 
description  of  things  most  generally  interesting  to  all  men, 
the  most  general  interest  would  be  found;  nevertheless,  I  be- 
lieve few  persons  would  hang  breathless  over  the  progressive 
history  of  a  sick-bed.  Yet  those  gradual  stages  from  danger 
to  recovery,  how  delightfully  interesting  they  are  to  all  who 
have  crawled  from  one  to  the  other!  and  who,  at  some  time 
or  other  in  his  journey  through  that  land  of  diseases  —  civil- 
ized life  —  has  not  taken  that  gentle  excursion?  "I  would  be 
ill  any  day  for  the  pleasure  of  getting  well, "  said  Fontenelle 
to  me  one  morning  with  his  usual  naivete;  but  who  would  not 
be  ill  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  being  ill,  if  he  could  be  tended 
by  her  whom  he  most  loves? 


DEVEREUX.  165 

I  shall  not  therefore  dwell  upon  that  most  delicious  period 
of  my  life, —  my  sick  bed,  and  my  recovery  from  it.  I  pass 
on  to  a  certain  evening  in  Avhich  I  heard  from  Isora's  lips  the 
whole  of  her  history,  save  what  related  to  her  knowledge  of 
the  real  name  of  one  whose  persecution  constituted  the  little 
of  romance  which  had  yet  mingled  with  her  innocent  and 
pure  life.  That  evening  —  how  well  I  remember  it !  —  we 
were  alone ;  still  weak  and  reduced,  I  lay  upon  the  sofa  be- 
side the  window,  which  was  partially  open,  and  the  still  air 
of  an  evening  in  the  first  infancy  of  spring  came  fresh,  and 
fraught  as  it  were  with  a  prediction  of  the  glowing  woods 
and  the  reviving  verdure,  to  my  cheek.  The  stars,  one  by 
one,  kindled,  as  if  born  of  Heaven  and  Twilight,  into  their 
nightly  being;  and,  through  the  vapour  and  thick  ether  of 
the  dense  city,  streamed  their  most  silent  light,  holy  and 
pure,  and  resembling  that  which  the  Divine  Mercy  sheds 
upon  the  gross  nature  of  mankind.  But,  shadowy  and  calm, 
their  rays  fell  full  upon  the  face  of  Isora,  as  she  lay  on  the 
ground  beside  my  couch,  and  with  one  hand  surrendered  to 
my  clasp,  looked  upward  till,  as  she  felt  my  gaze,  she  turned 
her  cheek  blushingly  away.  There  was  quiet  around  and 
above  us;  but  beneath  the  window  we  heard  at  times  the 
sounds  of  the  common  earth,  and  then  insensibly  our  hands 
knit  into  a  closer  clasp,  and  we  felt  them  thrill  more  palpably 
to  our  hearts ;  for  those  sounds  reminded  us  both  of  our  exist- 
ence and  of  our  separation  from  the  great  herd  of  our  race ! 

What  is  love  but  a  division  from  the  world,  and  a  blending 
of  two  souls,  two  immortalities  divested  of  clay  and  ashes, 
into  one?  it  is  a  severing  of  a  thousand  ties  from  whatever  is 
harsh  and  selfish,  in  order  to  knit  them  into  a  single  and  sa- 
cred bond!  Who  loves  hath  attained  the  anchorite's  secret; 
and  the  hermitage  has  become  dearer  than  the  world.  0 
respite  from  the  toil  and  the  curse  of  our  social  and  banded 
state,  a  little  interval  art  thou,  suspended  between  two  eterni- 
ties,—  the  Past  and  the  Future, — a  star  that  hovers  between 
the  morning  and  the  night,  sending  through  the  vast  abyss 
one  solitary  ray  from  heaven,  but  too  far  and  faint  to  illu- 
mine, while  it  hallows  the  earth! 


166  DEYEREUX. 

There  was  nothing  in  Isora's  tale  which  the  reader  has  not 
already  learned  or  conjectured.  She  had  left  her  Andalusian 
home  in  her  early  childhood,  but  she  remembered  it  well,  and 
lingeringly  dwelt  over  it  in  description.  It  was  evident  that 
little,  in  our  colder  and  less  genial  isle,  had  attracted  her 
sympathy,  or  wound  itself  into  her  affection.  Nevertheless,  I 
conceive  that  her  naturally  dreamy  and  abstracted  character 
had  received  from  her  residence  and  her  trials  here  much  of 
the  vigour  and  the  heroism  which  it  now  possessed.  Brought 
up  alone,  music,  and  books  —  few,  though  not  ill-chosen,  for 
Shakspeare  was  one,  and  the  one  which  had  made  upon  her 
the  most  permanent  impression,  and  perhaps  had  coloured 
her  temperament  with  its  latent  but  rich  hues  of  poetry — 
constituted  her  amusement  and  her  studies. 

But  who  knows  not  that  a  woman's  heart  finds  its  fullest 
occupation  within  itself?  There  lies  its  real  study,  and 
within  that  narrow  orbit,  the  mirror  of  enchanted  thought  re- 
flects the  whole  range  of  earth.  Loneliness  and  meditation 
nursed  the  mood  which  afterwards,  with  Isora,  became  love 
itself.  But  I  do  not  wish  now  so  much  to  describe  her  char- 
acter as  to  abridge  her  brief  history.  The  first  English 
stranger  of  the  male  sex  whom  her  father  admitted  to  her  ac- 
quaintance was  Barnard.  This  man  was,  as  I  had  surmised, 
connected  with  him  in  certain  political  intrigues,  the  exact 
nature  of  which  she  did  not  know.  I  continue  to  call  him  by 
a  name  which  Isora  acknowledged  was  fictitious.  He  had 
not,  at  first,  by  actual  declaration,  betrayed  to  her  his  affec- 
tions :  though,  accompanied  by  a  sort  of  fierceness  which  early 
revolted  her,  they  soon  became  visible.  On  the  evening  in 
which  I  had  found  her  stretched  insensible  in  the  garden, 
and  had  myself  made  my  first  confession  of  love,  I  learned 
that  he  had  divulged  to  her  his  passion  and  real  name; 
that  her  rejection  had  thrown  him  into  a  fierce  despair;  that 
he  had  accompanied  his  disclosure  with  the  most  terrible 
threats  against  me,  for  whom  he  supposed  himself  rejected, 
and  against  the  safety  of  her  father,  whom  he  said  a  word  of 
his  could  betray;  and  her  knowledge  of  his  power  to  injure 
us  —  us  —  yes,  Isora  then  loved  me,  and  then  trembled  for 


DEVEREUX.  167 

my  safety !  had  terrified  and  overcome  her ;  and  that  in  the 
very  moment  in  which  my  horse's  hoofs  were  heard,  and  as 
the  alternative  of  her  non-compliance,  the  rude  suitor  swore 
deadly  and  sore  vengeance  against  Alvarez  and  myself,  she 
yielded  to  the  oath  he  prescribed  to  her, —  an  oath  that  she 
would  never  reveal  the  secret  he  had  betrayed  to  her,  or  suffer 
me  to  know  who  was  my  real  rival. 

This  was  all  that  I  could  gather  from  her  guarded  confi- 
dence ;  he  heard  the  oath  and  vanished,  and  she  felt  no  more 
till  she  was  in  my  arms ;  then  it  was  that  she  saw  in  the  love 
and  vengeance  of  my  rival  a  barrier  against  our  union;  and 
then  it  was  that  her  generous  fear  for  me  conquered  her  at- 
tachment, and  she  renounced  me.  Their  departure  from  the 
cottage  so  shortly  afterwards  was  at  her  father's  choice  and 
at  the  instigation  of  Barnard,  for  the  furtherance  of  their 
political  projects ;  and  it  was  from  Barnard  that  the  money 
came  which  repaid  my  loan  to  Alvarez.  The  same  person,  no 
doubt,  poisoned  her  father  against  me,  for  henceforth  Alvarez 
never  spoke  of  me  with  that  partiality  he  had  previously  felt. 
They  repaired  to  London:  her  father  was  often  absent,  and 
often  engaged  with  men  whom  she  had  never  seen  before ;  he 
was  absorbed  and  uncommunicative,  and  she  was  still  igno- 
rant of  the  nature  of  his  schemings  and  designs. 

At  length,  after  an  absence  of  several  weeks,  Barnard  reap- 
peared, and  his  visits  became  constant;  he  renewed  his  suit 
to  her  father  as  well  as  herself.  Then  commenced  that  do- 
mestic persecution,  so  common  in  this  very  tyrannical  world, 
which  makes  us  sicken  to  bear,  and  which,  had  Isora  been 
wholly  a  Spanish  girl,  she,  in  all  probability,  would  never 
have  resisted :  so  much  of  custom  is  there  in  the  very  air  of  a 
climate.  But  she  did  resist  it,  partly  because  she  loved  me, 
—  and  loved  me  more  and  more  for  our  separation,  —  and 
partly  because  she  dreaded  and  abhorred  the  ferocious  and 
malignant  passions  of  my  rival,  far  beyond  any  other  misery 
with  which  fortune  could  threaten  her.  "  Your  father  then 
shall  hang  or  starve ! "  said  Barnard,  one  day  in  uncontrolla- 
ble frenzy,  and  left  her.  He  did  not  appear  again  at  the 
house.      The  Spaniard's  resources,  fed,  probably,  alone  by 


168  DEVEREUX. 

Barnard,  failed.  From  house  to  house  they  removed,  till 
they  were  reduced  to  that  humble  one  in  which  I  had  found 
them.  There,  Barnard  again  sought  them;  there,  backed  by 
the  powerful  advocate  of  want,  he  again  pressed  his  suit,  and 
at  that  exact  moment  her  father  was  struck  with  the  numbing 
curse  of  his  disease.  "  There  and  then, "  said  Isova,  candidly, 
"  I  might  have  yielded  at  last,  for  my  poor  father's  sake,  if 
you  had  not  saved  me." 

Once  only  (I  have  before  recorded  the  time)  did  Barnard 
visit  her  in  the  new  abode  I  had  provided  for  her,  and  the 
day  after  our  conversation  on  that  event  Isora  watched  and 
watched  for  me,  and  I  did  not  come.  From  the  woman  of 
the  house  she  at  last  learned  the  cause.  "I  forgot,"  she  said 
timidly, — and  in  conclusion,  "I  forgot  womanhood,  and  mod- 
esty, and  reserve;  I  forgot  the  customs  of  your  country,  the 
decencies  of  my  own ;  I  forgot  everything  in  this  world,  but 
you, — you  suffering  and  in  danger;  my  very  sense  of  exist- 
ence seemed  to  pass  from  me,  and  to  be  supplied  by  a  breath- 
less, confused,  and  overwhelming  sense  of  impatient  agony, 
which  ceased  not  till  I  was  in  your  chamber,  and  by  j'our 
side !  And  —  now,  Morton,  do  not  despise  me  for  not  having 
considered  more,  and  loved  you  less." 

"Despise  you!  "  I  murmured,  and  I  threw  my  arms  around 
her,  and  drew  her  to  my  breast.  I  felt  her  heart  beat  against 
my  own:  those  hearts  spoke,  though  our  lips  were  silent,  and 
in  their  language  seemed  to  say,  "We  are  united  now,  and 
we  will  not  part." 

The  starlight,  shining  with  a  mellow  and  deep  stillness, 
was  the  only  light  by  which  we  beheld  each  other :  it  shone, 
the  witness  and  the  sanction  of  that  internal  voice,  which 
we  owned,  but  heard  not.  Our  lips  drew  closer  and  closer 
together,  till  they  met!  and  in  that  kiss  was  the  type  and 
promise  of  the  after  ritual  which  knit  two  spirits  into  one. 
Silence  fell  around  us  like  a  curtain,  and  the  eternal  Night, 
with  her  fresh  dews  and  unclouded  stars,  looked  alone  upon 
the  compact  of  our  hearts, —  an  emblem  of  the  eternity,  the 
freshness,  and  the  unearthly  though  awful  brightness  of  the 
love  which  it  hallowed  and  beheld ! 


BOOK    III. 


CHAPTER  I. 


WHEREIN     THE     HISTORY     MAKES     GREAT      PROGRESS     AXD     IS 
MARKED    BY   ONE   IMPORTANT   EVENT   IN    HUMAN    LIFE. 

Spinoza  is  said  to  have  loved,  above  all  other  amusements, 
to  put  flies  into  a  spider's  web;  and  the  struggles  of  the  im- 
prisoned insects  were  wont  to  bear,  in  the  eyes  of  this  grave 
philosopher,  so  facetious  and  hilarious  an  appearance,  that 
he  would  stand  and  laugh  thereat  until  the  tears  "coursed  one 
another  down  his  innocent  nose."  Now  it  so  happened  that 
Spinoza,  despite  the  general  (and,  in  my  most  meek  opinion, 
the  just)  condemnation  of  his  theoretical  tenets,^  was,  in 
character  and  in  nature,  according  to  the  voices  of  all  who 
knew  him,  an  exceedingly  kind,  humane,  and  benevolent 
biped;  and  it  doth,  therefore,  seem  a  little  strange  unto  us 
grave,  sober  members  of  the  unphilosophical  Many,  that  the 
struggles  and  terrors  of  these  little  winged  creatures  should 
strike  the  good  subtleist  in  a  point  of  view  so  irresistibly 
ludicrous  and  delightful.  But,  for  my  part,  I  believe  that 
that  most  imaginative  and  wild  speculator  beheld  in  the  en- 
tangled flies  nothing  more  than  a  living  simile  —  an  animated 
illustration — of  his  own  beloved  vision  of  Necessity;  and 
that  he  is  no  more  to  be  considered  cruel  for  the  complacency 

1  One  ought,  however,  to  be  very  cautious  before  one  condemns  a  philoso- 
pher. The  master's  opinions  are  generally  pure :  it  is  the  conclusions  and 
corollaries  of  his  disciples  that  "  draw  the  honey  forth  that  drives  men  mad." 
Schlegel  seems  to  have  studied  Spinoza  de  fonte,  and  vindicates  him  very 
earnestly  from  the  charges  brought  against  him,  —  atheism,  etc.  —  Ed. 


170  DEVEREUX. 

with  which  he  gazed  upon  those  agonized  types  of  his  system 
than  is  Lucan  for  dwelling  with  a  poet's  pleasure  upon  the 
many  ingenious  ways  with  which  that  Grand  Inquisitor  of 
Verse  has  contrived  to  vary  the  simple  operation  of  dying. 
To  the  bard,  the  butchered  soldier  was  only  an  epic  ornament ; 
to  the  philosopher,  the  murdered  fly  was  only  a  metaphysical 
/illustration.  For,  without  being  a  fatalist,  or  a  disciple  of 
Baruch  de  Spinoza,  I  must  confess  that  I  cannot  conceive  a 
greater  resemblance  to  our  human  and  earthly  state  than  the 
penal  predicament  of  the  devoted  flies.  Suddenly  do  we  find 
ourselves  plunged  into  that  Vast  Web, — the  World;  and  even 
as  the  insect,  when  he  first  undergoeth  a  similar  accident  of 
necessity,  standeth  amazed  and  still,  and  only  by  little  and 
little  awakeneth  to  a  full  sense  of  his  situation;  so  also  at 
the  first  abashed  and  confounded,  we  remain  on  the  mesh  we 
are  urged  upon,  ignorant,  as  yet,  of  the  toils  around  us,  and 
the  sly,  dark,  immitigable  foe  that  lieth  in  yonder  nook,  al- 
ready feasting  her  imagination  upon  our  destruction.  Pres- 
ently we  revive,  we  stir,  we  flutter ;  and  Fate,  that  foe  —  the 
old  arch-spider,  that  hath  no  moderation  in  her  maw  —  now 
fixeth  one  of  her  many  eyes  upon  us,  and  giveth  us  a  partial 
glimpse  of  her  laidly  and  grim  aspect.  We  pause  in  mute 
terror;  we  gaze  upon  the  ugly  spectre,  so  imperfectly  beheld; 
the  net  ceases  to  tremble,  and  the  wily  enemy  draws  gently 
back  into  her  nook.  Now  we  begin  to  breathe  again;  we 
sound  the  strange  footing  on  which  we  tread ;  we  move  ten- 
derly along  it,  and  again  the  grisly  monster  advances  on  us ; 
again  we  pause;  the  foe  retires  not,  but  remains  still,  and 
surveyeth  us;  we  see  every  step  is  accompanied  with  danger; 
we  look  round  and  above  in  despair ;  suddenly  we  feel  within 
us  a  new  impulse  and  a  new  power!  we  feel  a  vague  sympathy 
with  that  unknown  region  which  spreads  beyond  this  great 
net, —  that  limitless  beyond  hath  a  mystic  affinity  with  a  part 
of  our  own  frame;  we  unconsciously  extend  our  wings  (for 
the  soul  to  us  is  as  the  wings  to  the  fly !) ;  we  attempt  to  rise, 
—  to  soar  above  this  perilous  snare,  from  which  we  are  una- 
ble to  crawl.  The  old  spider  watcheth  us  in  self-hugging 
quiet,   and,  looking  up   to  our   native  air,  we   think,  —  now 


DEVEREUX.  171 

shall  we  escape  thee.  Out  on  it!  "We  rise  not  a  hair's 
breadth :  we  have  the  wings,  it  is  true,  but  the  feet  are  fet- 
tered. We  strive  desperately  again :  the  whole  web  vibrates 
with  the  effort;  it  will  break  beneath  our  strength,  Not  a  jot 
of  it!  we  cease;  we  are  more  entangled  than  ever!  wings, 
feet,  frame,  the  foul  slime  is  over  all!  where  shall  we  turn? 
every  line  of  the  web  leads  to  the  one  den, —  we  know  not, — 
we  care  not,  —  we  grow  blind,  confused,  lost.  The  eyes  of 
our  hideous  foe  gloat  upon  us;  she  whetteth  her  insatiate 
maw;  she  leapeth  towards  us;  she  fixeth  her  fangs  upon  us; 
and  so  endeth  my  parallel ! 

But  what  has  this  to  do  with  my  tale?  Ay,  Reader,  that 
is  thy  question;  and  I  will  answer  it  by  one  of  mine.  "When 
thou  hearest  a  man  moralize  and  preach  of  Fate,  art  thou  not 
sure  that  he  is  going  to  tell  thee  of  some  one  of  his  peculiar 
misfortunes?  Sorrow  loves  a  parable  as  much  as  mirth  loves 
a  jest.  And  thus  already  and  from  afar,  I  prepare  thee,  at 
the  commencement  of  this,  the  third  of  these  portions  into 
which  the  history  of  my  various  and  wild  life  will  be  divided, 
for  that  event  with  which  I  purpose  that  the  said  portion 
shall  be  concluded. 

It  is  now  three  months  after  my  entire  recovery  from  my 
wounds,  and  I  am  married  to  Isora! — married,  —  yes,  but 
l^rivately  married,  and  the  ceremony  is  as  yet  closely  con- 
cealed,    1  will  explain. 

The  moment  Isora's  anxiety  for  me  led  her  across  the 
threshold  of  my  house  it  became  necessary  for  her  honour 
that  our  wedding  should  take  place  immediately  on  my  recov- 
ery :  so  far  I  was  decided  on  the  measure ;  now  for  the  method. 
During  my  illness,  I  received  a  long  and  most  affectionate 
letter  from  Aubrey,  who  was  then  at  Devereux  Court:  so 
affectionate  was  the  heart-breathing  spirit  of  that  letter,  so 
steeped  in  all  our  old  household  remembrances  and  boyish 
feelings,  that  coupled  as  it  was  with  a  certain  gloom  when  he 
spoke  of  himself  and  of  worldly  sins  and  trials,  it  brought 
tears  to  my  eyes  whenever  I  recurred  to  it;  and  many  and 
many  a  time  afterwards,  when  I  thought  his  affections  seemed 
estranged  from  me,  I  did  recur  to  it  to  convince  myself  that  I 


172  DEVEREUX. 

was  mistaken.  Shortly  afterwards  I  received  also  a  brief 
epistle  from  my  uncle;  it  was  as  kind  as  usual,  and  it  men- 
tioned Aubrey's  return  to  Devereux  Court.  "That  unhappy 
boy,"  said  Sir  William,  "is  more  than  ever  devoted  to  his 
religious  duties ;  nor  do  I  believe  that  any  priest-ridden  poor 
devil  in  the  dark  ages  ever  made  such  use  of  the  scourge  and 
the  penance." 

Now,  I  have  before  stated  that  my  uncle  would,  I  knew,  be 
averse  to  my  intended  marriage ;  and  on  hearing  that  Aubrey 
was  then  with  him,  I  resolved,  in  replying  to  his  letter,  to 
entreat  the  former  to  sound  Sir  William  on  the  subject  I  had 
most  at  heart,  and  ascertain  the  exact  nature  and  extent  of 
the  opposition  I  should  have  to  encounter  in  the  step  I  was 
resolved  to  take.  By  the  same  post  I  wrote  to  the  good  old 
knight  in  as  artful  a  strain  as  I  was  able,  dwelling  at  some 
length  upon  my  passion,  upon  the  high  birth,  as  well  as  the 
numerous  good  qualities  of  the  object,  but  mentioning  not 
her  name;  and  I  added  everything  that  I  thought  likely  to 
enlist  my  uncle's  kind  and  warm  feelings  ou  my  behalf. 
These  letters  produced  the  following  ones :  — 


FROM   SIR  WILLIAM  DEVEREUX. 

'Sdeath,  nephew  Morton,  —  but  I  won't  scold  thee,  though  thou 
deservest  it.  Let  me  see,  thou  art  now  scarce  twenty,  and  thou  talkest 
of  marriage,  which  is  the  exclusive  business  of  middle  age,  as  famiHarly 
as  "  girls  of  thirteen  do  of  puppy-dogs."  I\Iarry  !  —  go  hang  thvself 
rather.  Marriage,  my  dear  boy,  is  at  the  best  a  treacherous  proceeding ; 
and  a  friend  —  a  true  friend  —  will  never  counsel  another  to  adopt  it 
rashly.  Look  you :  I  have  had  experience  in  these  matters  ;  and,  I 
think,  the  moment  a  woman  is  wedded  some  terrible  revolution  happens 
in  her  system ;  all  her  former  good  quahties  vanish,  hey  presto !  like 
eggs  out  of  a  conjuror's  box  ;  'tis  true  they  appear  on  t'other  side  of  the 
box,  the  side  turned  to  other  people,  but  for  the  poor  husband  they  are 
gone  forever.  Ods  fish,  Morton,  go  to  !  I  tell  thee  again  that  I  have 
had  experience  in  these  matters  which  thou  never  hast  had,  clever  as 
thou  thinkest  thyself.  If  now  it  were  a  good  marriage  thou  wert  about 
to  make  ;  if  thou  wert  going  to  wed  power,  and  money,  and  places  at 
court,  —  why,  something  might  be  said  for  thee.     As  it  is,  there  is  no 


DEVEREUX.  173 

excuse  —  none.  And  I  am  astonished  how  a  boy  of  thy  sense  could 
think  of  such  nonsense.  Birth,  Morton,  what  the  devil  does  that  signify 
so  long  as  it  is  birth  in  another  country  ?  A  foreign  damsel,  and  a 
Spanish  girl,  too,  above  all  others  I  'Sdeath,  man,  as  if  there  was  not 
quicksilver  enough  in  the  English  women  for  you,  you  must  make  a 
mercurial  exportation  from  Spain,  must  you  !  Why,  Morton,  Morton, 
the  ladies  in  that  country  are  proverbial.  I  tremble  at  the  very  thought 
of  it.  But  as  for  my  consent,  I  never  will  give  it,  —  never  ;  and  though 
I  threaten  thee  not  with  disinheritance  and  such  like,  yet  I  do  ask 
something  in  return  for  the  great  affection  I  have  always  borne  thee ; 
and  I  make  no  doubt  that  thou  wilt  readily  oblige  me  in  such  a  trifle 
as  giving  up  a  mere  Spanish  donna.  So  think  of  her  no  more.  If  thou 
wantest  to  make  love,  there  are  ladies  in  plenty  whom  thou  needest  not 
to  marry.  And  for  my  part,  I  thought  that  thou  wert  all  in  all  with  the 
Lady  Hasselton  :  Heaven  bless  her  pretty  face  !  Now  don't  think  I 
want  to  scold  thee  ;  and  don't  think  thine  old  uncle  harsh,  —  God  knows 
he  is  not,  —  but  my  dear,  dear  boy,  this  is  quite  out  of  the  question,  and 
thou  must  let  me  hear  no  more  about  it.  The  gout  cripples  me  so  that 
I  must  leave  off.     Ever  thine  old  uncle, 

William  Devereux. 

P.  S.  Upon  consideration,  I  think,  my  dear  boy,  that  thou  must  want 
money,  and  thou  art  ever  too  sparing.  Messrs.  Child,  or  my  goldsmiths 
in  Aldersgate,  have  my  orders  to  pay  to  thy  hand's-writing  whatever 
thou  mayst  desire ;  and  I  do  hope  that  thou  wilt  now  want  nothing  to 
make  thee  merry  withal.  Why  dost  thou  not  write  a  comedy  ?  is  it  not 
the  mode  still  ? 


LETTER  FROM  AUBREY   DEVEREUX. 

I  have  sounded  my  uncle,  dearest  Morton,  according  to  your  wishes  ; 
and  I  grieve  to  say  that  I  have  found  him  inexorable.  He  was  very . 
much  hurt  by  your  letter  to  him,  and  declared  he  should  write  to  you 
forthwith  upon  the  subject.  I  represented  to  him  all  that  you  have  said 
upon  the  virtues  of  your  intended  bride  ;  and  I  also  insisted  upon  your 
clear  judgment  and  strong  sense  upon  most  points  being  a  sufficient 
surety  for  your  prudence  upon  this.  But  you  know  the  libertine  opin- 
ions and  the  depreciating  judgment  of  women  entertained  by  my  poor 
uncle ;  and  he  would,  I  believe,  have  been  less  displeased  with  the 
heinous  crime  of  an  illicit  connection  than  the  amiable  weakness  of  an 
imprudent  marriage  —  I  might  say  of  any  marriage  —  until  it  was  time 
to  provide  heirs  to  the  estate. 


174  DEVEREUX. 

Here  Aubrey,  in  the  most  affectionate  and  earnest  manner, 
broke  off,  to  point  out  to  me  the  extreme  danger  to  my  inter- 
ests that  it  would  be  to  disoblige  my  uncle ;  who,  despite  his 
general  kindness,  would,  upon  a  disagreement  on  so  tender  a 
matter  as  his  sore  point,  and  his  most  cherished  hobby,  con- 
sider my  disobedience  as  a  personal  affront.  He  also  recalled 
to  me  all  that  my  uncle  had  felt  and  done  for  me;  and  in- 
sisted, at  all  events,  upon  the  absolute  duty  of  my  delaying, 
even  though  I  should  not  break  off,  the  intended  measure. 
Upon  these  points  he  enlarged  much  and  eloquently;  and  this 
part  of  his  letter  certainly  left  no  cheering  or  comfortable 
impression  upon  my  mind. 

Now  my  good  uncle  knew  as  much  of  love  as  L.  IMummius 
did  of  the  fine  arts,^  and  it  was  impossible  to  persuade  him 
that  if  one  wanted  to  indulge  the  tender  passion,  one  woman 
would  not  do  exactly  as  well  as  another,  provided  she  were 
equally  pretty.  I  knew  therefore  that  he  was  incapable,  on 
the  one  hand,  of  understanding  my  love  for  Isora,  or,  on  the 
other,  of  acknowledging  her  claims  upon  me.  I  had  not,  of 
course,  mentioned  to  him  the  generous  imprudence  which,  on 
the  news  of  my  wound,  had  brought  Isora  to  my  house :  for 
if  I  had  done  so,  my  uncle,  with  the  eye  of  a  courtier  of 
Charles  II.,  would  only  have  seen  the  advantage  to  be  derived 
from  the  impropriety,  not  the  gratitude  due  to  the  devotion ; 
neither  had  I  mentioned  this  circumstance  to  Aubrey, —  it 
seemed  to  me  too  delicate  for  any  written  communication; 
and  therefore,  in  his  advice  to  delay  my  marriage,  he  was 
unaware  of  the  necessity  which  rendered  the  advice  unavail- 
ing. Now  then  was  I  in  this  dilemma,  either  to  marry,  and 
that  instant er,  and  so,  seemingly,  with  the  most  hasty  and  the 
most  insolent  decorum,  incense,  wound,  and  in  his  interpreta- 
tion of  the  act,  contemn  one  whom  I  loved  as  I  loved  my 
uncle;  or,  to  delay  the  marriage,  to  separate  Isora,  and  to 
leave  my  future  wife  to  the  malignant  consequences  that 
would  necessarily  be  drawn  from  a  sojourn  of  weeks  in  my 

1  A  Roman  consul,  who,  removing  the  most  celebrated  remains  of  Grecian 
antiqxjity  to  Rome,  assured  the  persons  charged  with  conveying  them  that, 
if  they  injured  any,  they  should  make  others  to  replace  them. 


DEVEREUX  175 

house.  This  fact  there  was  no  chance  of  concealing;  servants 
have  more  tongues  than  Argus  had  eyes,  and  my  youthful  ex- 
travagance had  filled  my  whole  house  with  those  pests  of  soci- 
ety. The  latter  measure  was  impossible,  the  former  was  most 
painful.  Was  there  no  third  way?  —  there  was  that  of  a  pri- 
vate marriage.  This  obviated  not  every  evil ;  but  it  removed 
many :  it  satisfied  my  impatient  love ;  it  placed  Isora  under  a 
sure  protection ;  it  secured  and  established  her  honour  the  mo- 
ment the  ceremony  should  be  declared;  and  it  avoided  the 
seeming  ingratitude  and  indelicacy  of  disobeying  my  uncle, 
without  an  effort  of  patience  to  appease  him.  I  should  have 
time  and  occasion  then,  I  thought,  for  soothing  and  persuad- 
ing hira,  and  ultimately  winning  that  consent  which  I  firmly 
trusted  I  should  sooner  or  later  extract  from  his  kindness  of 
heart. 

That  some  objections  existed  to  this  mediatory  plan  was 
true  enough :  those  objections  related  to  Isora  rather  than  to 
myself,  and  she  was  the  first,  on  my  hinting  at  the  proposal, 
to  overcome  its  difficulties.  The  leading  feature  in  Isora's 
character  was  generosity ;  and,  in  truth,  I  know  not  a  quality 
more  dangerous  either  to  man  or  woman.  Herself  was  inva- 
riably the  last  human  being  whom  she  seemed  to  consider; 
and  no  sooner  did  she  ascertain  what  measure  was  the  most 
prudent  for  me  to  adopt,  than  it  immediately  became  that 
upon  which  she  insisted.  Would  it  have  been  possible  for 
me,  man  of  pleasure  and  of  the  world  as  I  was  thought  to  be, 
—  no,  my  good  uncle,  though  it  went  to  my  heart  to  wound 
thee  so  secretly,  it  would  not  have  been  possible  for  me,  even 
if  I  had  not  coined  my  whole  nature  into  love,  even  if  Isora 
had  not  been  to  me  what  one  smile  of  Isora's  really  was, —  it 
would  not  have  been  possible  to  have  sacrificed  so  noble  and 
so  divine  a  heart,  and  made  myself,  in  that  sacrifice,  a  wretch 
forever.  Xo,  my  good  uncle.  I  could  not  have  made  that 
surrender  to  thy  reason,  much  less  to  thy  prejudices.  But  if 
I  have  not  done  great  injustice  to  the  knight's  character,  I 
doubt  whether  the  youngest  reader  will  not  forgive  him  for 
a  want  of  sympathy  with  one  feeling,  when  they  consider 
how  susceptible  that  charming  old  man  was  to  all  others. 


176  DEVEREUX. 

And  here-svith  I  could  discourse  most  excellent  wisdom 
upon  tliat  mysterious  passion  of  love.  I  could  show,  by 
tracing  its  causes,  and  its  inseparable  connection  with  the 
imagination,  that  it  is  only  in  certain  states  of  society,  as 
well  as  in  certain  periods  of  life,  that  love  —  real,  pure,  high 
love  —  can  be  born.  Yea,  I  could  prove,  to  the  nicety  of  a 
very  problem,  that,  in  the  court  of  Charles  II.,  it  would  have 
been  as  impossible  for  such  a  feeling  to  find  root,  as  it  would 
be  for  myrtle  trees  to  effloresce  from  a  Duvillier  periwig. 
And  we  are  not  to  expect  a  man,  however  tender  and  affec- 
tionate he  may  be,  to  sympathize  with  that  sentiment  in  an- 
other, which,  from  the  accidents  of  birth  and  position,  nothing 
short  of  a  miracle  could  have  ever  produced  in  himself. 

We  were  married  then  in  private  by  a  Catholic  priest.  St. 
John,  and  one  old  lady  who  had  been  my  father's  godmother 
—  for  I  wished  for  a  female  assistant  in  the  ceremony,  and 
this  old  lady  could  tell  no  secrets,  for,  being  excessively 
deaf,  nobody  ever  talked  to  her,  and  indeed  she  scarcely  ever 
went  abroad  —  were  the  sole  witnesses.  I  took  a  small  house 
in  the  immediate  neighbourhood  of  'London ;  it  was  surrounded 
on  all  sides  with  a  high  wall  which  defied  alike  curiosity  and 
attack.  This  was,  indeed,  the  sole  reason  which  had  induced 
me  to  prefer  it  to  many  more  gaudy  or  more  graceful  dwell- 
ings. But  within  I  had  furnished  it  with  every  luxury  that 
wealth,  the  most  lavish  and  unsparing,  could  procure. 
Thither,  under  an  assumed  name,  I  brought  my  bride,  and 
there  was  the  greater  part  of  my  time  spent.  The  people  I 
had  placed  in  the  house  believed  I  was  a  rich  merchant,  and 
this  accounted  for  my  frequent  absences  (absences  which  Pru- 
dence rendered  necessary),  for  the  wealth  which  I  lavished, 
and  for  the  precautions  of  bolt,  bar,  and  wall,  which  they 
imagined  the  result  of  commercial  caution. 

Oh  the  intoxication  of  that  sweet  Elysium,  that  Tadmor  in 
life's  desert,  —  the  possession  of  the  one  whom  we  have  first 
loved!  It  is  as  if  poetry,  and  music,  and  light,  and  the  fresh 
breath  of  flowers,  were  all  blended  into  one  being,  and  from 
that  being  rose  our  existence!  It  is  content  made  rapture, — 
nothing  to  wish  for,  yet  everything  to  feel!     Was  that  air 


DEVEREUX.  177 

the  air  which  I  had  breathed  hitherto?  that  earth  the  earth 
which  I  had  hitherto  behekl?  No,  my  heart  dwelt  in  a  new 
worhl,  and  all  these  motley  and  restless  senses  were  melted 
into  one  sense,  —  deep,  silent,  fathomless  delight! 

Well,  too  much  of  this  species  of  love  is  not  fit  for  a  worldly 
tale,  and  I  will  turn,  for  the  reader's  relief,  to  worldly  affec- 
tions. From  my  first  reunion  with  Isora,  I  had  avoided  all 
the  former  objects  and  acquaintances  in  which  my  time  had 
been  so  charmingly  employed.  Tarleton  was  the  first  to 
suffer  by  my  new  pursuit.  "What  has  altered  you?"  said 
he;  "you  drink  not,  neither  do  you  play.  The  women  say 
you  are  grown  duller  than  a  Norfolk  parson,  and  neither  the 
Puppet  Show  nor  the  Water  Theatre,  the  Spring  Gardens 
nor  the  Eing,  Wills's  nor  the  Kit  Cat,  the  Mulberry  Garden 
nor  the  New  Exchange,  witness  any  longer  your  homage  and 
devotion.     What  has  come  over  you?  —  speak!  " 

"Apathy!" 

"Ah!  I  understand, —  you  are  tired  of  these  things ;  pish, 
man!  —  go  down  into  the  country,  the  green  fields  will  revive 
thee,  and  send  thee  back  to  London  a  new  man !  One  would 
indeed  find  the  town  intolerably  dull,  if  the  country  were  not, 
happily,  a  thousand  times  duller:  go  to  the  country,  Count, 
or  I  shall  drop  your  friendship." 

"  Drop  it ! "  said  I,  yawning,  and  Tarleton  took  pet,  and 
did  as  I  desired  him.  Now  I  had  got  rid  of  my  friend  as 
easily  as  I  had  found  him, —  a  matter  that  would  not  have 
been  so  readily  accomplished  had  not  Mr.  Tarleton  owed  me 
certain  moneys,  concerning  which,  from  the  moment  he  had 
"dropped  my  friendship,"  good  breeding  effectually  prevented 
his  saying  a  single  syllable  to  me  ever  after.  There  is  no 
knowing  the  blessings  of  money  until  one  has  learned  to 
manage  it  properly! 

So  much,  then,  for  the  friend;  now  for  the  mistress.  Lady 
Hasselton  had,  as  Tarleton  hinted  before,  resolved  to  play  me 
a  trick  of  spite ;  the  reasons  of  our  rupture  really  were,  as  I 
had  stated  to  Tarleton,  the  mighty  effects  of  little  things. 
She  lived  in  a  sea  of  trifles,  and  she  was  desperately  angry  if 
her  lover  was  not  always  sailing  a  pleasure-boat  in  the  same 

12 


178  DEVEREUX. 

ocean.  ISTo^v  this  was  expecting  too  mucli  from  me,  and,  after 
twisting  our  silken  strings  of  attachment  into  all  manner  of 
fantastic  forms,  we  fell  fairly  out  one  evening  and  broke  the 
little  ligatures  in  two.  No  sooner  had  I  quarrelled  with  Tarle- 
ton  than  Lady  Hasselton  received  him  in  my  place,  and  a  week 
afterwards  I  was  favoured  with  an  anonymous  letter,  inform- 
ing me  of  the  violent  passion  which  a  certain  dame  de  la  cour 
had  conceived  for  me,  and  requesting  me  to  meet  her  at  an 
appointed  place.  I  looked  twice  over  the  letter,  and  discov- 
ered in  one  corner  of  it  two  g^s  peculiar  to  the  caligraphy  of 
Lady  Hasselton,  though  the  rest  of  the  letter  (bad  spelling 
excepted)  was  pretty  decently  disguised.  Mr.  Fielding  was 
with  me  at  the  time.  "What  disturbs  you?"  said  he,  adjust- 
ing his  knee-buckles. 

"  Read  it !  "  said  I,  handing  him  the  letter. 

"Body  of  me,  you  are  a  lucky  dog!  "  cried  the  beau.  "You 
will  hasten  thither  on  the  wings  of  love." 

"Not  a  whit  of  it,"  said  I;  "I  suspect  that  it  comes  from  a 
rich  old  widow  whom  I  hate  mortally." 

"  A  rich  old  widow !  "  repeated  Mr.  Fielding,  to  whose  eyes 
there  was  something  very  piquant  in  a  jointure,  and  who 
thought  consequently  that  there  were  few  virginal  flowers 
equal  to  a  widow's  weeds.  "A  rich  old  widow:  you  are 
right.  Count,  you  are  right.  Don't  go,  don't  think  of  it.  I 
cannot  abide  those  depraved  creatures.  Widow,  indeed, — 
quite  an  affront  to  your  gallantry." 

"Very  true,"  said  I.     " Suppose  you  supply  my  place?" 

"I'd  sooner  be  shot  first,"  said  Mr.  Fielding,  taking  his 
departure,  and  begging  me  for  the  letter  to  wrap  some  sugar 
plums  in. 

Need  I  add,  that  Mr.  Fielding  repaired  to  the  place  of  as- 
signation, where  he  received,  in  the  shape  of  a  hearty  drub- 
bing, the  kind  favours  intended  for  me?  The  story  was  now 
left  for  me  to  tell,  not  for  the  Lady  Hasselton;  and  that 
makes  all  the  difference  in  the  manner  a  story  is  told,  —  me 
narrante,  it  is  de  te  fabula  narratur;  te  narrante,  and  it  is  de 
me  fabula,  etc.  Poor  Lady  Hasselton!  to  be  laughed  at,  and 
have  Tarleton  for  a  lover! 


DEVEREUX.  179 

I  have  gone  back  somewhat  in  the  progress  of  my  history 
in  order  to  make  the  above  honourable  mention  of  my  friend 
and  my  mistress,  thinking  it  due  to  their  own  merits,  and 
thinking  it  may  also  be  instructive  to  young  gentlemen  who 
have  not  yet  seen  the  world  to  testify  the  exact  nature  and 
the  probable  duration  of  all  the  loves  and  friendships  they  are 
likely  to  find  in  that  Great  Monmouth  Street  of  glittering  and 
of  damaged  affections!     I  now  resume  the  order  of  narration. 

I  wrote  to  Aubrey,  thanking  him  for  his  intercession,  but 
concealing,  till  we  met,  the  measure  I  had  adopted.  I  wrote 
also  to  my  uncle,  assuring  him  that  I  would  take  an  early  op- 
portunity of  hastening  to  Devereux  Court,  and  conversing 
with  him  on  the  subject  of  his  letter.  And  after  an  interval 
of  some  weeks,  I  received  the  two  following  answers  from  my 
correspondents;  the  latter  arrived  several  days  after  the 
former :  — 

FROM  AUBREY  DEVEREUX. 

1  am  glad  to  understand  from  your  letter,  unexplanatorj'  as  it  is,  that 
you  have  followed  my  advice.  I  will  shortly  write  to  you  more  at  large ; 
at  present  I  am  on  the  eve  of  my  departure  for  the  North  of  England, 
and  have  merely  time  to  assure  you  of  my  affection. 

Aubrey  Devereux. 

P.  S.  Gerald  is  in  London ;  have  you  seen  him  ?  Oh,  this  world  ! 
this  world !  how  it  clings  to  us,  despite  our  education,  our  wishes,  our 
conscience,  our  knowledge  of  the  Dread  Hereafter  I 

LETTER  FROM  SIR   WILLIAM  DEVEREUX. 

My  dear  Nephew,  —  Thank  thee  for  thy  letter,  and  the  new  plays 
thou  sentest  me  down,  and  that  droll  new  paper,  the  "  Spectator  : "  it  is 
a  pretty  shallow  thing  enough,  —  though  it  is  not  so  racy  as  Rochester 
or  little  Sid  would  have  made  it ;  but  I  thank  thee  for  it,  because  it 
shows  thou  wast  not  angry  with  thine  old  uncle  for  opposing  thee  on  thy 
love  whimsies  (in  which  most  young  men  are  dreadfully  obstinate),  since 
thou  didst  provide  so  kindly  for  his  amusement.  Well,  but,  Morton,  I 
hope  thou  hast  got  that  crotchet  clear  out  of  thy  mind,  and  prithee  now 
don't  talk  of  it  when  thou  comest  down  to  see  me.  I  hate  conversations 
on  marriage  more  than  a  boy  does  flogging,  —  ods  fish,  I  do.  So  you 
must  humour  me  on  that  point ! 


180  DEVEREUX. 

Aubrey  has  left  me  again,  and  I  am  quite  alone,  —  not  that  I  was 
much  better  off  when  he  was  here,  for  he  was  wont,  of  late,  to  shun  uiy 
poor  room  like  a  "  lazar  house,"  and  when  I  spoke  to  his  mother  about  it, 
she  muttered  something  about  "  example  "  and  "  corrupting."  'Sdeath, 
Morton,  is  your  old  uncle,  who  loves  all  living  things,  down  to  poor 
Ponto  the  dog,  the  sort  of  man  whose  example  corrupts  youth  ?  As  for 
thy  mother,  she  grows  more  solitary  every  day  ;  and  1  don't  know  how 
it  is,  but  I  am  not  so  fond  of  strange  faces  as  I  used  to  be.  'T  is  a  new 
thing  for  me  to  be  avoided  and  alone.  Why,  I  remember  even  little  Sid, 
who  had  as  much  vemon  as  most  men,  once  said  it  was  impossible  to  — 
Fie  now  —  see  if  I  was  not  going  to  preach  a  sermon  from  a  text  ia 
favour  of  myself !  But  come,  Morton,  come,  I  long  for  your  face  again  : 
it  is  not  so  soft  as  Aubrey's,  nor  so  regular  as  Gerald's ;  but  it  is  twice 
as  kind  as  either.  Come,  before  it  is  too  late  :  I  feel  myself  going  ;  and, 
to  tell  thee  a  secret,  the  doctors  tell  me  I  may  not  last  many  months 
longer.  Come,  and  laugh  once  more  at  the  old  knight's  stories.  Come, 
and  show  him  that  there  is  still  some  one  not  too  good  to  love  him. 
Come,  and  I  will  tell  thee  a  famous  thing  of  old  Rowley,  which  I  am 

too  ill  and  too  sad  to  tell  thee  now. 

Wm.  Devereux. 

Need  I  say  that,  upon  receiving  this  letter,  I  resolved, 
"without  any  delay,  to  set  out  for  Devereux  Court?  I  sum- 
moned Desmarais  to  me;  he  answered  not  my  call:  he  was 
from  home, —  an  unfrequent  occurrence  with  the  necessitarian 
valet.  I  waited  his  return,  which  was  not  for  some  hours,  in 
order  to  give  him  sundry  orders  for  my  departure.  The  ex- 
quisite Desmarais  hemmed  thrice, —  "Will  Monsieur  be  so 
very  kind  as  to  excuse  my  accompanying  him?"  said  he,  with 
his  usual  air  and  tone  of  obsequious  respect. 

"And  why?"  The  valet  explained.  A  relation  of  his  was 
in  England  only  for  a  few  days:  the  philosopher  was  most 
anxious  to  enjoy  his  society,  a  pleasure  which  fate  might  not 
again  allow  him. 

Though  I  had  grown  accustomed  to  the  man's  services,  and 
did  not  like  to  lose  him  even  for  a  time,  yet  I  could  not  refuse 
his  request;  and  I  therefore  ordered  another  of  my  servants 
to  supply  his  place.  This  change,  however,  determined  me 
to  adopt  a  plan  which  I  had  before  meditated;  namely,  the 
conveying  of  my  own  person  to  Devereux  Court  on  horseback, 


DEVEREUX.  181 

and  sending  my  servant  with  my  luggage  in  my  post-chaise. 
The  equestrian  mode  of  travelling  is,  indeed  to  this  day,  the 
one  most  pleasing  to  me ;  and  the  reader  will  find  me  pursu- 
ing it  many  years  afterwards,  and  to  the  same  spot. 

I  might  as  well  observe  here  that  I  had  never  intrusted 
Desmarais  —  no,  nor  one  of  my  own  servants  —  with  the  se- 
cret of  my  marriage  with,  or  my  visits  to,  Isora.  I  am  a 
very  fastidious  person  on  those  matters ;  and  of  all  confidants, 
even  in  the  most  trifling  affairs,  I  do  most  eschew  those  by 
whom  we  have  the  miserable  honour  of  being  served. 

In  order,  then,  to  avoid  having  my  horse  brought  me  to 
Isora's  house  by  any  of  these  menial  spies,  I  took  the  steed 
which  I  had  selected  for  my  journey,  and  rode  to  Isora's  with 
the  intention  of  spending  the  evening  there,  and  thence  com- 
mencing my  excursion  with  the  morning  light. 


CHAPTER  II. 

love;  parting;  a  death-bed. — after  all  human  nature 
IS  A  beautiful  fabric;  and  even  its  imperfections 
are  not  odious  to  him  who  has  studied  the  science 
OF  its  architecture,  and  formed  a  reverent  estimate 

OF   ITS    creator. 

It  is  a  noticeable  thing  how  much  fear  increases  love.  I 
mean  —  for  the  aphorism  requires  explanation  —  how  much 
we  love  in  proportion  to  our  fear  of  losing  (or  even  to  our  fear 
of  injury  done  to)  the  beloved  object.  'T  is  an  instance  of 
the  reaction  of  the  feelings :  the  love  produces  the  fear,  and 
the  fear  reproduces  the  love.  This  is  one  reason,  among 
many,  why  women  love  so  much  more  tenderly  and  anxiously 
than  we  do ;  and  it  is  also  one  reason  among  many  why  fre- 
quent absences  are,  in  all  stages  of  love,  the  most  keen  ex- 
citers of  the  passion.     I   never  breathed,  away  from  Isora, 


182  DEVEREUX. 

without  trembling  for  her  safety.  I  trembled  lest  this  Bar- 
nard, if  so  I  should  still  continue  to  call  her  persecutor, 
should  again  discover  and  again  molest  her.  Whenever  (and 
that  was  almost  daily)  I  rode  to  the  quiet  and  remote  dwell- 
ing I  had  procured  her,  my  heart  beat  so  vehemently,  and 
my  agitation  was  so  intense,  that  on  arriving  at  the  gate  I 
have  frequently  been  unable,  for  several  minutes,  to  demand 
admittance.  There  was,  therefore,  in  the  mysterious  danger 
which  ever  seemed  to  hang  over  Isora,  a  perpetual  irritation 
to  a  love  otherwise  but  little  inclined  to  slumber;  and  this 
constant  excitement  took  away  froin  the  torpor  into  which 
domestic  affection  too  often  languishes,  and  increased  my 
passion  even  while  it  diminished  my  happiness. 

On  my  arrival  now  at  Isora's,  I  found  her  already  stationed 
at  the  window,  watching  for  my  coming.  How  her  dark 
eyes  lit  into  lustre  when  they  saw  me !  How  the  rich  blood 
mantled  up  under  the  soft  cheek  which  feeling  had  refined 
of  late  into  a  paler  hue  than  it  was  wont,  when  I  first  gazed 
upon  it,  to  wear!  Then  how  sprang  forth  her  light  step  to 
meet  me!  How  trembled  her  low  voice  to  welcome  me! 
How  spoke,  from  every  gesture  of  her  graceful  form,  the  anx- 
ious, joyful,  all-animating  gladness  of  her  heart !  It  is  a  mel- 
ancholy pleasure  to  the  dry,  harsh  afterthoughts  of  later  life, 
to  think  one  has  been  thus  loved;  and  one  marvels,  when  one 
considers  what  one  is  now,  how  it  could  have  ever  been! 
That  love  of  ours  was  never  made  for  after  years !  It  could 
never  have  flowed  into  the  common  and  cold  channel  of  ordi- 
nary affairs!  It  could  never  have  been  mingled  with  the 
petty  cares  and  the  low  objects  with  which  the  loves  of  all 
who  live  long  together  in  this  sordid  and  most  earthly  earth 
are  sooner  or  later  blended!  We  could  not  have  spared  to 
others  an  atom  of  the  great  wealth  of  our  affection.  We  were 
misers  of  every  coin  in  that  boundless  treasury.  It  would 
have  pierced  me  to  the  soul  to  have  seen  Isora  smile  upon  an- 
other. I  know  not  even,  had  we  had  children,  if  I  should 
not  have  been  jealous  of  my  child!  Was  this  selfish  love? 
yes,  it  was,  intensely,  wholly  selfish ;  but  it  was  a  love  made 
so  only  by  its  excess ;  nothing  selfish  on  a  smaller  scale  pol- 


DEVEREUX.  183 

luted  it.  There  was  not  on  earth  that  which  the  one  would 
not  have  forfeited  at  the  lightest  desire  of  the  other.  So 
utterly  were  happiness  and  Isora  entwined  together  that  I 
could  form  no  idea  of  the  one  with  which  the  other  was  not 
connected.  Was  this  love  made  for  the  many  and  miry  roads 
through  which  man  must  travel?  Was  it  made  for  age,  or, 
worse  than  age,  for  those  cool,  ambitious,  scheming  years  that 
we  call  mature,  in  which  all  the  luxuriance  and  verdure  of 
things  are  pared  into  tame  shapes  that  mimic  life,  but  a  life 
that  is  estranged  from  Nature,  in  which  art  is  the  only  beauty 
and  regularity  the  only  grace?  No,  in  my  heart  of  hearts,  I 
feel  that  our  love  was  not  meant  for  the  stages  of  life  through 
which  I  have  already  passed;  it  would  have  made  us  misera- 
ble to  see  it  fritter  itself  away,  and  to  remember  what  it  once 
was.  Better  as  it  is !  better  to  mourn  over  the  green  bough 
than  to  look  upon  the  sapless  stem.  You  who  now  glance 
over  these  pages,  are  you  a  mother?  If  so,  answer  me  one 
question:  Would  you  not  rather  that  the  child  whom  you 
have  cherished  with  your  soul's  care,  whom  you  have  nur- 
tured at  your  bosom,  whose  young  joys  your  eyes  have  spar- 
kled to  behold,  whose  lightest  grief  you  have  wept  to  witness 
as  you  would  have  wept  not  for  your  own ;  over  whose  pure 
and  unvexed  sleep  you  have  watched  and  prayed,  and,  as  it 
lay  before  you  thus  still  and  unconscious  of  your  vigil,  have 
shaped  out,  oh,  such  bright  hopes  for  its  future  lot,  —  would 
you  not  rather  that  while  thus  young  and  innocent,  not  a  care 
tasted,  not  a  crime  incurred,  it  went  down  at  once  into  the 
dark  grave?  Would  you  not  rather  suffer  this  grief,  bitter 
though  it  be,  than  watch  the  predestined  victim  grow  and 
ripen,  and  wind  itself  more  and  more  around  your  heart,  and 
when  it  is  of  full  and  mature  age,  and  you  yourself  are  stricken 
by  years,  and  can  form  no  new  ties  to  replace  the  old  that 
are  severed,  when  woes  have  already  bowed  the  darling  of 
your  hope,  whom  woe  never  was  to  touch,  when  sins  have 
already  darkened  the  bright,  seraph,  unclouded  heart  which 
sin  never  was  to  dim, — behold  it  sink  day  by  day  altered, 
diseased,  decayed,  into  the  tomb  which  its  childhood  had  in 
vain  escaped?    Answer  me:  would  not  the  earlier  fate  be  far 


184  DEVEREUX. 

gentler  than  the  last?  And  if  you  have  kno-^n  and  wept 
over  that  early  tomb,  if  you  have  seen  the  infant  flower  fade 
away  from  the  green  soil  of  your  affections ;  if  you  have  missed 
the  bounding  step,  and  the  laughing  eye,  and  the  winning 
mirth  which  made  this  sterile  world  a  perpetual  holiday, — 
Mother  of  the  Lost,  if  you  have  known,  and  you  still  pine  for 
these,  answer  me  yet  again !  Is  it  not  a  comfort,  even  while 
you  mourn,  to  think  of  all  that  that  breast,  now  so  silent, 
has  escaped?  The  cream,  the  sparkle,  the  elixir  of  life,  it 
had  already  quaffed :  is  it  not  sweet  to  think  it  shunned  the 
wormwood  and  the  dregs?  Answer  me,  even  though  the  an- 
swer be  in  tears !  Mourner,  your  child  was  to  you  what  my 
early  and  only  love  was  to  me;  and  could  you  pierce  down, 
down  through  a  thousand  fathom  of  ebbing  thought,  to  the 
far  depths  of  my  heart,  you  would  there  behold  a  sorrow  and 
a  consolation  that  have  something  in  unison  with  your  own ! 

When  the  light  of  the  next  morning  broke  into  our  room, 
Isora  was  still  sleeping.  Have  you  ever  observed  that  the 
young,  seen  asleep  and  by  the  morning  light,  seem  much 
younger  even  than  they  are?  partly  because  the  air  and  the 
light  sleep  of  dawn  bring  a  fresher  bloom  to  the  cheek,  and 
partly,  because  the  careless  negligence  and  the  graceful  pos- 
tures exclusively  appropriated  to  youth,  are  forbidden  by  cus- 
tom and  formality  through  the  day,  and  developing  themselves 
unconsciously  in  sleep,  they  strike  the  eye  like  the  ease  and 
freedom  of  childhood  itself.  There,  as  I  looked  upon  Isora's 
tranquil  and  most  youthful  beauty,  over  which  circled  and 
breathed  an  ineffable  innocence, —  even  as  the  finer  and  subt- 
ler air,  which  was  imagined  by  those  dreamy  bards  who  kin- 
dled the  soft  creations  of  naiad  and  of  nymph,  to  float  around 
a  goddess, —  I  could  not  believe  that  aught  evil  awaited  one  for 
whom  infancy  itself  seemed  to  linger, —  linger  as  if  no  elder 
shape  and  less  delicate  hue  were  meet  to  be  the  garment  of  so 
much  guilelessness  and  tenderness  of  heart.  I  felt,  indeed, 
while  I  bent  over  her,  and  her  regular  and  quiet  breath  came 
upon  my  cheek,  that  feeling  which  is  exactly  the  reverse  to 
a  presentiment  of  ill.  I  felt  as  if,  secure  in  her  own  purity, 
she  had  nothing  to  dread,  so  that  even  the  pang  of  parting 


DEVEREUX.  186 

was  lost  in  the  confidence  which  stole  over  me  as  I  then 
gazed. 

I  rose  gently,  went  to  the  next  room,  and  dressed  myself;  I 
heard  my  horse  neighing  beneath,  as  the  servant  walked  him 
lazily  to  and  fro.  I  re-entered  the  bed-chamber  in  order  to 
take  leave  of  Isora;  she  was  already  up.  "What!"  said  I, 
"  it  is  but  three  minutes  since  I  left  you  asleep,  and  I  stole 
away  as  time  does  when  with  you." 

"Ah!"  said  Isora,  smiling  and  blushing  too,  "but  for  my 
part,  I  think  there  is  an  instinct  to  know,  even  if  all  the 
senses  were  shut  up,  whether  the  one  we  love  is  with  us  or 
not.  The  moment  you  left  me,  I  felt  it  at  once,  even  in  sleep, 
and  I  woke.  But  you  will  not,  no,  you  will  not  leave  me 
yet!" 

I  think  I  see  Isora  now,  as  she  stood  by  the  window  which 
she  had  opened,  with  a  woman's  minute  anxiety,  to  survey 
even  the  aspect  of  the  clouds,  and  beseech  caution  against  the 
treachery  of  the  skies.  I  think  I  see  her  now,  as  she  stood 
the  moment  after  I  had  torn  myself  from  her  embrace,  and 
had  looked  back,  as  I  reached  the  door,  for  one  parting  glance, 
—  her  eyes  all  tenderness,  her  lips  parted,  and  quivering  with 
the  attempt  to  smile,  the  long,  glossy  ringlets  (through  whose 
raven  hue  the  inirpureum  lumen  broke  like  an  imprisoned 
sunbeam)  straying  in  dishevelled  beauty  over  her  transparent 
neck;  the  throat  bent  in  mute  despondency;  the  head  droop- 
ing; the  arms  half  extended,  and  dropping  gradually  as  my 
steps  departed;  the  sunken,  absorbed  expression  of  face, 
form,  and  gesture,  so  steeped  in  the  very  bitterness  of  dejec- 
tion,—  all  are  before  me  now,  sorrowful,  and  lovely  in  sorrow, 
as  they  were  beheld  years  ago,  by  the  gray,  cold,  comfortless 
light  of  morning! 

"God  bless  you, — my  own,  own  love,"  I  said;  and  as  my 
look  lingered,  I  added,  with  a  full  but  an  assured  heart;  "and 
He  will ! "  I  tarried  no  more :  I  flung  myself  on  my  horse, 
and  rode  on  as  if  I  were  speeding  to,  and  not  from,  my  bride. 

The  noon  was  far  advanced,  as,  the  day  after  I  left  Isora,  I 
found  myself  entering  the  park  in  which  Devereux  Court  is 
situated.     1  did  not  enter  by  one  of  the  lodges,  but  through 


186  DEVEREUX. 

a  private  gate.  My  horse  was  thoroughly  jaded;  for  the  dis- 
tance I  had  come  was  great,  and  I  had  ridden  rapidly ;  and  as 
I  came  into  the  park,  I  dismounted,  and,  throwing  the  rein 
over  my  arm,  proceeded  slowly  on  foot.  I  was  passing  through 
a  thick,  long  plantation,  which  belted  the  park  and  m  which 
several  walks  and  rides  had  been  cut,  when  a  man  crossed  the 
same  road  which  I  took,  at  a  little  distance  before  me.  He 
was  looking  on  the  ground,  and  appeared  wrapt  in  such  ear- 
nest meditation  that  he  neither  saw  nor  heard  me.  But  I 
had  seen  enough  of  him,  in  that  brief  space  of  time,  to  feel 
convinced  that  it  was  Montreuil  whom  I  beheld.  What 
brought  him  hither,  him,  whom  I  believed  in  London,  im- 
mersed with  Gerald  in  political  schemes,  and  for  whom  these 
woods  were  not  only  interdicted  ground,  but  to  whom  they 
must  have  also  been  but  a  tame  field  of  interest,  after  his 
audiences  with  ministers  and  nobles?  I  did  not,  however, 
pause  to  consider  on  his  apparition;  I  rather  quickened  my 
pace  towards  the  house,  in  the  expectation  of  there  ascertain- 
ing the  cause  of  his  visit. 

The  great  gates  of  the  outer  court  were  open  as  usual :  I 
rode  unheedingly  through  them,  and  was  soon  at  the  door  of 
the  hall.  The  porter,  who  unfolded  to  my  summons  the  pon- 
derous door,  uttered,  when  he  saw  me,  an  exclamation  that 
seemed  to  my  ear  to  have  in  it  more  of  sorrow  than  welcome. 

"  How  is  your  master?  "  I  asked. 

The  man  shook  his  head,  but  did  not  hasten  to  answer; 
and,  impressed  with  a  vague  alarm,  I  hurried  on  without  re- 
peating the  question.  On  the  staircase  I  met  old  Nicholls, 
my  uncle's  valet;  I  stopped  and  questioned  him.  My  uncle 
had  been  seized  on  the  preceding  day  with  gout  in  the  stom- 
ach; medical  aid  had  been  procured,  but  it  was  feared  inef- 
fectually, and  the  physicians  had  declared,  about  an  hour 
before  I  arrived,  that  he  could  not,  in  human  probability, 
outlive  the  night.  Stifling  the  rising  at  my  heart,  I  waited 
to  hear  no  more;  I  flew  up  the  stairs;  I  was  at  the  door  of 
my  uncle's  chamber;  I  stopped  there,  and  listened;  all  was 
still;  I  opened  the  door  gently;  I  stole  in,  and,  creeping  to 
the  bedside,  knelt  down  and  covered  my  face  with  my  hands; 


Ji 


DEVEREUX.  187 

for  I  required  a  pause  for  self-possession,  before  I  had  cour- 
age to  look  up.  When  I  raised  my  eyes,  I  saw  my  mother  on 
the  opposite  side ;  she  sat  on  a  chair  with  a  draught  of  medi- 
cine in  one  hand,  and  a  watch  in  the  other.  She  caught  my 
eye,  but  did  not  speak;  she  gave  me  a  sign  of  recognition, 
and  looked  down  again  upon  the  watch.  My  uncle's  back 
was  turned  to  me,  and  he  lay  so  still  that,  for  some  moments, 
I  thought  he  was  asleep ;  at  last,  however,  he  moved  restlessly. 

"It  is  past  noon!  "  said  he  to  my  mother,  "is  it  not?" 

"It  is  three  minutes  and  six  seconds  after  four,"  replied 
my  mother,   looking  closer  at  the  watch. 

My  uncle  sighed.  "  They  have  sent  an  express  for  the  dear 
boy,  Madam?"  said  he. 

"Exactly  at  half-past  nine  last  evening,"  answered  my 
mother,  glancing  at  me. 

"He  could  scarcely  be  here  by  this  time,"  said  my  uncle, 
and  he  moved  again  in  the  bed.  "Pish,  how  the  pillow  frets 
one ! " 

"Is  it  too  high?"  said  my  mother. 

"No,"  said  my  uncle,  faintly,  "no  —  no  —  the  discomfort  is 
not  in  the  pillow,  after  all:  'tis  a  fine  day;  is  it  not?" 

"Very!  "  said  my  mother;  "I  wish  you  could  go  out." 

My  uncle  did  not  answer :  there  was  a  pause.  "  Ods  fish, 
Madam,  are  those  carriage  wheels?" 

"  No,  Sir  William  —  but  —  " 

"There  are  sounds  in  my  ear;  my  senses  grow  dim,"  said 
my  uncle,  unheeding  her:  "would  that  I  might  live  another 
day;  I  should  not  like  to  die  without  seeing  him.  'Sdeath, 
Madam,  I  do  hear  something  behind!  —  Sobs,  as  I  live!  — 
Who  sobs  for  the  old  knight?"  and  my  uncle  turned  round, 
and  saw  me. 

"  My  dear  —  dear  uncle !  "  I  said,  and  could  say  no  more. 

"Ah,  Morton,"  cried  the  kind  old  man,  putting  his  hand 
affectionately  upon  mine.  "  Beshrew  me,  but  I  think  I  have 
conquered  the  grim  enemy  now  that  you  are  come.  But 
what's  this,  my  boy?  —  tears  —  tears, —why,  little  Sid  —  no, 
nor  Eochester  either,  would  ever  have  believed  this  if  I  had 
sworn  it!     Cheer  up,  cheer  up." 


188  DEVEREUX. 

But,  seeing  that  I  wept  and  sobbed  tbe  more,  my  uncle,  after 
a  pause,  continued  in  the  somewhat  figurative  strain  which 
the  reader  has  observed  he  sometimes  adopted,  and  which 
perhaps  his  dramatic  studies  had  taught  him. 

^'Xay,  Morton,  what  do  you  grieve  for?  —  that  Age  should 
throw  off  its  fardel  of  aches  and  pains,  and  no  longer  groan 
along  its  weary  road,  meeting  cold  looks  and  unwilling  wel- 
comes, as  both  host  and  comrade  grow  weary  of  the  same  face, 
and  the  spendthrift  heart  has  no  longer  quip  or  smile  where- 
with to  pay  the  reckoning?  No,  no :  let  the  poor  pedler  shuffle 
off  his  dull  pack,  and  fall  asleep.  But  I  am  glad  you  are 
come:  I  would  sooner  have  one  of  your  kind  looks  at  your 
uncle's  stale  saws  or  jests  than  all  the  long  faces  about  me, 
saving  only  the  presence  of  your  mother;  "  and  with  his  char- 
acteristic gallantry,  my  uncle  turned  courteously  to  her. 

"  Dear  Sir  William !  "  said  she,  "  it  is  time  you  should  take 
your  draught ;  and  then  would  it  not  be  better  that  you  should 
see  the  chaplain?  he  waits  without." 

"Ods  fish,"  said  my  uncle,  turning  again  to  me,  "'tis 
the  way  with  them  all:  when  the  body  is  past  hope  comes 
the  physician,  and  when  the  soul  is  past  mending  comes  the 
priest.  No,  Madam,  no,  't  is  too  late  for  either.  —  Thank  ye, 
^Morton,  thank  ye  "  (as  I  started  up  —  took  the  draught  from 
my  mother's  hand,  and  besought  him  to  drink  it),  "  't  is  of  no 
use ;  but  if  it  pleases  thee,  I  must, "  —  and  he  drank  the 
medicine. 

My  mother  rose,  and  walked  towards  the  door:  it  was  ajar; 
and,  as  my  eye  followed  her  figure,  I  perceived,  through  the 
opening,  the  black  garb  of  the  chaplain. 

"Not  yet,"  said  she,  quietly;  "wait."  And  then  gliding 
away,  seated  herself  by  the  window  in  silence,  and  told  her 
beads. 

My  uncle  continued :  "  They  have  been  at  me,  Morton,  as  if 
I  had  been  a  pagan;  and  I  believe,  in  their  hearts,  they  are 
not  a  little  scandalized  that  I  don't  try  to  win  the  next  world 
by  trembling  like  an  ague.  Faith  now,  I  never  could  believe 
that  Heaven  was  so  partial  to  cowards ;  nor  can  I  think,  Mor- 
ton, that  Salvation  is  like  a  soldier's  muster-roll,  and  that  we 


DEVEREUX.  189 

may  play  the  devil  between  hours,  so  that,  at  the  last  mo- 
ment, we  whip  in,  and  answer  to  our  names.  Ods  fish,  Mor- 
ton, I  could  tell  thee  a  tale  of  that;  but  'tis  a  long  one,  and 
we  have  not  time  now.  Well,  well,  for  my  part,  I  deem 
reverently  and  gratefully  of  God,  and  do  not  believe  He  will 
be  very  wroth  with  our  past  enjoyment  of  life,  if  we  have 
taken  care  tliat  others  should  enjoy  it  too;  nor  do  I  think, 
with  thy  good  mother,  and  Aubrey,  dear  child !  that  an  idle 
word  has  the  same  weight  in  the  Almighty's  scales  as  a 
wicked  deed." 

"Blessed,  blessed,  are  they,"  I  cried  through  my  tears,  "on 
whose  souls  there  is  as  little  stain  as  there  is  on  yours! " 

"Faith,  Morton,  that's  kindly  said;  and  thou  knowest  not 
how  strangely  it  sounds,  after  their  exhortations  to  repent- 
ance. I  know  I  have  had  my  faults,  and  walked  on  to  our 
common  goal  in  a  very  irregular  line;  but  I  never  wronged 
the  living  nor  slandered  the  dead,  nor  ever  shut  my  heart  to 
the  poor, —  'twere  a  burning  sin  if  I  had, —  and  I  have  loved 
all  men  and  all  things,  and  I  never  bore  ill-will  to  a  creature. 
Poor  Ponto,  Morton,  thou  wilt  take  care  of  poor  Ponto,  when 
I'm  dead,  —  nay,  nay,  don't  grieve  so.  Go,  my  child,  go: 
compose  thyself  while  I  see  the  priest,  for  't  will  please  thy 
poor  mother;  and  though  she  thinks  harshly  of  me  now,  I 
should  not  like  her  to  do  so  to-ynorroiu !  Go,  my  dear  boy, 
go." 

I  went  from  the  room,  and  waited  by  the  door,  till  the 
office  of  the  priest  was  over.  My  mother  then  came  out,  and 
said  Sir  William  had  composed  himself  to  sleep.  While  she 
was  yet  speaking,  Gerald  surprised  me  by  his  appearance.  I 
learned  that  he  had  been  in  the  house  for  the  last  three  days, 
and  when  I  heard  this,  I  involuntarily  accounted  for  the  ap- 
pearance of  Montreuil.  I  saluted  him  distantly,  and  he  re- 
turned my  greeting  with  the  like  pride.  He  seemed,  however, 
though  in  a  less  degree,  to  share  in  my  emotions;  and  my 
heart  softened  to  him  for  it.  Nevertheless  we  stood  apart, 
and  met  not  as  brothers  should  have  met  by  the  death-bed  of 
a  mutual  benefactor. 

"Will  you  wait  without?"  said  my  mother. 


190  DEVEREUX. 

"No,"  answered  I,  "I  will  watch  over  him."  So  I  stole  in, 
with  a  light  step,  and  seated  myself  by  my  uncle's  bed-side. 

He  was  asleep,  and  his  sleep  was  as  hushed  and  quiet  as  an 
infant's.  I  looked  upon  his  face,  and  saw  a  change  had  come 
over  it,  and  was  increasing  sensibly:  but  there  was  neither 
harshness  nor  darkness  in  the  change,  awful  as  it  was.  The 
soul,  so  long  nurtured  on  benevolence,  could  not,  in  parting, 
leave  a  rude  stamp  on  the  kindly  clay  which  had  seconded  its 
impulses  so  well. 

The  evening  had  just  set  in,  when  my  uncle  woke;  he 
turned  very  gently,   and  smiled  when  he  saw  me. 

"It  is  late,"  said  he,  and  I  observed  with  a  wrung  heart, 
that  his  voice  was  fainter. 

"No,  Sir,  not  very,"  said  I. 

"Late  enough,  my  child;  the  warm  sun  has  gone  down; 
and  'tis  a  good  time  to  close  one's  eyes,  when  all  without 
looks  gray  and  chill :  methinks  it  is  easier  to  wish  thee  fare- 
well, Morton,  when  I  see  thy  face  indistinctly.  I  am  glad  I 
shall  not  die  in  the  daytime.  Give  me  thy  hand,  my  child, 
and  tell  me  that  thou  art  not  angry  with  thine  old  uncle  for 
thwarting  thee  in  that  love  business.  I  have  heard  tales  of 
the  girl,  too,  which  made  me  glad,  for  thy  sake,  that  it  is  all 
off,  though  I  might  not  tell  thee  of  them  before.  'T  is  very 
dark,  Morton.  I  have  had  a  pleasant  sleep.  Ods  fish,  I  do 
not  think  a  bad  man  would  have  slept  so  well.  The  fire 
burns  dim,  Morton:  it  is  very  cold.  Cover  me  up;  double 
the  counterpane  over  the  legs,  Morton.  I  remember  once 
walking  in  the  Mall;  little  Sid  said,  'Devereux'  —  it  is 
colder  and  colder,  Morton;  raise  the  blankets  more  over  the 
back;  'Devereux,'  said  little  Sid  —  faith,  Morton,  'tis  ice 
now  —  where  art  thou?  —  is  the  fire  out,  that  I  can't  see  thee? 
Remember  thine  old  uncle,  Morton  —  and  —  and  —  don't 
forget  poor  —  Ponto.     Bless  thee,  my  child ;  bless  you  all !  " 

And  my  uncle  died! 


DEVEREUX.  191 


CHAPTER  III. 

A    GREAT   CHANGE   OF    PROSPECTS. 

I  SHUT  myself  up  in  the  apartments  prepared  for  me  (they 
were  not  those  I  had  formerly  occupied),  and  refused  all  par- 
ticipation in  my  solitude,  till,  after  an  interval  of  some  days, 
my  mother  came  to  summon  me  to  the  opening  of  the  will. 
She  was  more  moved  than  I  had  expected.  "  It  is  a  pity, " 
said  she,  as  we  descended  the  stairs,  "that  Aubrey  is  not 
here,  and  that  we  should  be  so  unacquainted  with  the  exact 
place  where  he  is  likely  to  be  that  I  fear  the  letter  I  sent  him 
may  be  long  delayed,  or,  indeed,  altogether  miscarry." 

"Is  not  the  Abbe  here?"  said  I,  listlessly. 

"Ko!  "  answered  my  mother,  "to  be  sure  not." 

"He  has  been  here,"  said  I,  greatly  surprised.  "I  certainly 
saw  him  on  the  day  of  my  arrival." 

"Impossible!"  said  my  mother,  in  evident  astonishment; 
and  seeing  that,  at  all  events,  she  was  unacquainted  with  the 
circumstance,  I  said  no  more. 

The  will  was  to  be  read  in  the  little  room  where  my  uncle 
had  been  accustomed  to  sit.  I  felt  it  as  a  sacrilege  to  his 
memory  to  choose  that  spot  for  such  an  office,  but  I  said 
nothing.  Gerald  and  my  mother,  the  lawyer  (a  neighbouring 
attorney,  named  Oswald),  and  myself  were  the  only  persons 
present.  Mr.  Oswald  hemmed  thrice,  and  broke  the  seal. 
After  a  preliminary,  strongly  characteristic  of  the  testator, 
he  came  to  the  disposition  of  the  estates.  I  had  never  once, 
since  my  poor  uncle's  death,  thought  upon  the  chances  of  his 
will;  indeed,  knowing  myself  so  entirely  his  favourite,  I 
could  not,  if  I  had  thought  upon  them,  have  entertained  a 
doubt  as  to  their  result.  What  then  was  my  astonishment 
when,  couched  in  terms  of  the  strongest  affection,  the  whole 
bulk  of  the  property  was  bequeathed  to  Gerald;  to  Aubrey 


192  DEVEREUX, 

the  sum  of  forty,  to  myself  that  of  twenty  thousand  pounds 
(a  capital  considerably  less  than  the  yearly  income  of  my 
uncle's  princely  estates), was  allotted.  Then  followed  a  list 
of  minor  bequests,  —  to  my  mother  an  annuity  of  three  thou- 
sand a  year,  with  the  privilege  of  apartments  in  the  house 
during  her  life ;  to  each  of  the  servants  legacies  sufficient  for 
independence;  to  a  few  friends,  and  distant  connections  of 
the  family,  tokens  of  the  testator's  remembrance, —  even  the 
horses  to  his  carriage,  and  the  dogs  that  fed  from  his  menials' 
table,  were  not  forgotten,  but  were  to  be  set  apart  from 
work,  and  maintained  in  indolence  during  their  remaining 
span  of  life.  The  will  was  concluded:  I  could  not  believe 
my  senses ;  not  a  word  was  said  as  a  reason  for  giving  Gerald 
the  priority. 

I  rose  calmly  enough.  "Suffer  me.  Sir,"  said  I  to  the  law- 
yer, "to  satisfy  my  own  eyes."  Mr.  Oswald  bowed,  and 
placed  the  will  in  my  hands.  I  glanced  at  Gerald  as  I  took 
it:  his  countenance  betrayed,  or  feigned,  an  astonishment 
equal  to  my  own.  With  a  jealous,  searching,  scrutinizing 
eye,  I  examined  the  words  of  the  bequest;  I  examined  espe- 
cially (for  I  suspected  that  the  names  must  have  been  ex- 
changed) the  place  in  which  my  name  and  Gerald's  occurred. 
In  vain:  all  was  smooth  and  fair  to  the  eye,  not  a  vestige  of 
possible  erasure  or  alteration  was  visible.  I  looked  next  at 
the  wording  of  the  will:  it  was  evidently  my  uncle's;  no 
one  could  have  feigned  or  imitated  the  peculiar  turn  of  his 
expressions ;  and,  above  all,  many  parts  of  the  will  (the  affec- 
tionate and  personal  parts)  were  in  his  own  handwriting. 

"The  date,"  said  I,  "is,  I  perceive,  of  very  recent  period; 
the  will  is  signed  by  two  witnesses  besides  yourself.  Who 
and  where  are  they?" 

"Robert  Lister,  the  first  signature,  my  clerk;  he  is  since 
dead.  Sir." 

"Dead!  "  said  I;  "and  the  other  witness,  George  Davis?" 

"Is  one  of  Sir  William's  tenants,  and  is  below.  Sir,  in 
waiting." 

"  Let  him  come  up, "  and  a  middle-sized,  stout  man,  with  a 
blunt,  bold,  open  countenance,  was  admitted. 


DEVEREUX.  198 

*'  Did  jon  witness  this  will?  "  said  I. 

"I  did,  your  honour!  " 

"And  this  is  your  handwriting?"  pointing  to  the  scarcely 
legible  scrawl. 

"Yees,  your  honour,"  said  the  man,  scratching  his  head, 
"I  think  it  be;  they  are  my  ees,  and  G,  and  D,  sure  enough." 

"And  do  you  know  the  purport  of  the  will  you  signed?" 

"Anan!" 

"1  mean,  do  you  know  to  whom  Sir  William  —  stop,  Mr. 
OsAvald,  suffer  the  man  to  answer  me  —  to  whom  Sir  William 
left  his  property?" 

*']S"oa,  to  be  sure,  Sir;  the  will  was  a  woundy  long  one,  and 
Maister  Oswald  there  told  me  it  was  no  use  to  read  it  over  to 
me,  but  merely  to  sign,  as  a  witness  to  Sir  William's  hand- 
writing." 

"  Enough :  you  may  retire ;  "  and  George  Davis  vanished. 

"Mr.  Oswald,"  said  I,  approaching  the  attorney,  "I  may 
Avrong  you,  and  if  so,  I  am  sorry  for  it,  but  I  suspect  there 
has  been  foul  practice  in  this  deed.  I  have  reason  to  be  con- 
vinced that  Sir  William  Devereux  could  never  have  made  this 
devise.  I  give  you  warning,  Sir,  that  I  shall  bring  the  busi- 
ness immediately  before  a  court  of  law,  and  that  if  guilty  — 
ay,  tremble,  Sir  —  of  what  I  suspect,  you  will  answer  for  this 
deed  at  the  foot  of  the  gallows." 

I  turned  to  Gerald,  who  rose  while  I  was  yet  speaking. 
Before  I  could  address  him,  he  exclaimed,  with  evident  and 
extreme  agitation, — 

"You  cannot,  Morton, — you  cannot  —  you  dare  not  —  in- 
sinuate that  I,  your  brother,  have  been  base  enough  to  forge, 
or  to  instigate  the  forgery  of,  this  will?" 

Gerald's  agitation  made  me  still  less  doubtful  of  his  guilt. 

"The  case.  Sir,"  I  answered  coldly,  "stands  thus:  my  uncle 
could  not  have  made  this  will;  it  is  a  devise  that  must  seem 
incredible  to  all  who  knew  aught  of  our  domestic  cir«um- 
stances.  Fraud  has  been  practised,  how  I  know  not;  by 
whom  I  do  know." 

"  Morton,  INIorton :  this  is  insufferable ;  I  cannot  bear  such 
charges,  even  from  a  brother." 

13 


194  DEVEREUX. 

"Charges! — your  conscience  speaks,  Sir, — not  I;  no  one 
benefits  by  this  fraud  but  you:  pardon  me  if  I  draw  an 
inference  from  a  fact." 

So  saying,  I  turned  on  my  heel,  and  abruptly  left  the  apart- 
ment. I  ascended  the  stairs  which  led  to  my  own :  there  I 
found  my  servant  preparing  the  paraphernalia  in  which  that 
very  evening  I  was  to  attend  my  uncle's  funeral.  I  gave 
him,  with  a  calm  and  collected  voice,  the  necessary  instruc- 
tions for  following  me  to  town  immediately  after  that  event, 
and  then  I  passed  on  to  the  room  where  the  deceased  lay  in 
state.  The  room  was  hung  with  black:  the  gorgeous  pall, 
wrought  with  the  proud  heraldry  of  our  line,  lay  over  the 
coffin ;  and  by  the  lights  which  made,  in  that  old  chamber,  a 
more  brilliant,  yet  more  ghastly,  day,  sat  the  hired  watchers 
of  the  dead. 

I  bade  them  leave  me,  and  kneeling  down  beside  the  coffin, 
I  poured  out  the  last  expressions  of  my  grief.  I  rose,  and 
was  retiring  once  more  to  my  room,  when  I  encountered 
Gerald. 

"Morton,"  said  he,  "I  own  to  you,  I  myself  am  astounded 
by  my  uncle's  will.  I  do  not  come  to  make  you  offers ;  you 
would  not  accept  them :  I  do  not  come  to  vindicate  myself,  it  is 
beneath  me;  and  we  have  never  been  as  brothers,  and  we  know 
not  their  language :  but  I  do  come  to  demand  you  to  retract 
the  dark  and  causeless  suspicions  you  have  vented  against  me, 
and  also  to  assure  you  that,  if  you  have  doubts  of  the  authen- 
ticity of  the  will,  so  far  from  throwing  obstacles  in  your  way, 
I  myself  will  join  in  the  inquiries  you  institute  and  the  ex- 
penses of  the  law." 

I  felt  some  difficulty  in  curbing  my  indignation  while  Ger- 
ald thus  spoke.  I  saw  before  me  the  persecutor  of  Isora,  the 
fraudulent  robber  of  my  rights,  and  I  heard  this  enemy  speak 
to  me  of  aiding  in  the  inquiries  which  were  to  convict  him- 
self of  the  basest,  if  not  the  blackest,  of  human  crimes;  there 
was  something  too  in  the  reserved  and  yet  insolent  tone  of 
his  voice  which,  reminding  me  as  it  did  of  our  long  aversion 
to  each  other,  made  my  very  blood  creep  with  abhorrence.  I 
turned  away,  that  I  might  not  break  my  oath  to  Isora,  for  I 


DEVEREUX.  195 

felt  strongly  tempted  to  do  so;  and  said  in  as  calm  an  accent 
as  I  could  command,  "The  case  will,  I  trust,  require  no 
king's  evidence;  and,  at  least,  I  will  not  be  beholden  to  the 
man  whom  my  reason  condemns  for  any  assistance  in  bring- 
ing upon  himself  the  ultimate  condemnation  of  the  law." 

Gerald  looked  at  me  sternly.  "Were  you  not  my  brother," 
said  he,  in  a  low  tone,  "I  would,  for  a  charge  so  dishonour- 
ing my  fair  name,   strike  you  dead  at  my  feet." 

"It  is  a  wonderful  exertion  of  fraternal  love,"  I  rejoined, 
with  a  scornful  laugh,  but  an  eye  flashing  with  passions  a 
thousand  times  more  fierce  than  scorn,  "that  prevents  your 
adding  that  last  favour  to  those  you  have  already  bestowed 
on  me." 

Gerald,  with  a  muttered  curse,  placed  his  hand  upon  his 
sword;  my  own  rapier  was  instantly  half  drawn,  when,  to 
save  us  from  the  great  guilt  of  mortal  contest  against  each 
other,  steps  were  heard,  and  a  number  of  the  domestics 
charged  with  melancholy  duties  at  the  approaching  rite,  were 
seen  slowly  sweeping  in  black  robes  along  the  opposite  gal- 
lery. Perhaps  that  interruption  restored  both  of  us  to  our 
senses,  for  we  said,  almost  in  the  same  breath,  and  nearly  in 
the  same  phrase,  "  This  way  of  terminating  strife  is  not  for 
us;"  and,  as  Gerald  spoke,  he  turned  slowly  away,  descended 
the  staircase,  and  disappeared. 

The  funeral  took  place  at  night:  a  numerous  procession  of 
the  tenants  and  peasantry  attended.  My  poor  uncle!  there 
was  not  a  dry  eye  for  thee,  but  those  of  thine  own  kindred. 
Tall,  stately,  erect  in  the  power  and  majesty  of  his  unrivalled 
form,  stood  Gerald,  already  assuming  the  dignity  and  lord- 
ship which,  to  speak  frankly,  so  well  became  him;  my 
mother's  face  was  turned  from  me,  but  her  attitude  pro- 
claimed her  utterly  absorbed  in  prayer.  As  for  myself,  my 
heart  seemed  hardened:  I  could  not  betray  to  the  gaze  of  a 
hundred  strangers  the  emotions  which  I  would  have  hidden 
from  those  whom  I  loved  the  most.  Wrapped  in  my  cloak, 
with  arms  folded  on  my  breast,  and  eyes  bent  to  the  ground, 
I  leaned  against  one  of  the  pillars  of  th©  chapel,  apart,  and 
apparently  unmoved. 


196  de\t:reux. 

But  when  they  were  about  to  lower  the  body  into  the  vault, 
a  momentary  weakness  came  over  me.  I  made  an  involuntary 
step  forward,  a  single  but  deep  groan  of  anguish  broke  from 
me,  and  then,  covering  my  face  with  my  mantle,  I  resumed 
my  former  attitude,  and  all  was  still.  The  rite  was  over ;  in 
many  and  broken  groups  the  spectators  passed  from  the 
chapel :  some  to  speculate  on  the  future  lord,  some  to  mourn 
over  the  late,  and  all  to  return  the  next  morning  to  their 
wonted  business,  and  let  the  glad  sun  teach  them  to  forget 
the  past,  until  for  themselves  the  sun  should  be  no  more,  and 
the  forgetfulness  eternal. 

The  hour  was  so  late  that  I  relinquished  my  intention  of 
leaving  the  house  that  night;  I  ordered  my  horse  to  be  in 
readiness  at  daybreak  and  before  I  retired  to  rest  I  went  to 
my  mother's  apartments :  she  received  me  with  more  feeling 
than  she  had  ever  testified  before. 

"Believe  me,  Morton,"  said  she,  and  she  kissed  my  fore- 
head; "believe  me,  I  can  fully  enter  into  the  feelings  which 
you  must  naturally  experience  on  an  event  so  contrary  to  your 
expectations.  I  cannot  conceal  from  you  how  much  I  am 
surprised.  Certainly  Sir  William  never  gave  any  of  us 
cause  to  suppose  that  he  liked  either  of  your  brothers  —  Ger- 
ald less  than  Aubrey —  so  much  as  yourself;  nor,  poor  man, 
was  he  in  other  things  at  all  addicted  to  conceal  his  opinions." 

"It  is  true,  my  mother,"  said  I;  "it  is  true.  Have  you 
not  therefore  some  suspicions  of  the  authenticity  of  the  will?  " 

"  Suspicions ! "  cried  my  mother.  "  No !  —  impossible !  — 
suspicions  of  whom?  You  couM  not  think  Gerald  so  base, 
and  who  else  had  an  interest  in  deception?  Besides,  the  sig- 
nature is  undoubtedly  Sir  William's  handwriting,  and  the 
will  was  regularly  witnessed;  suspicions,  Morton, —  no,  im- 
possible !  Reflect,  too,  how  eccentric  and  humoursome  your 
uncle  always  was :  suspicions !  —  no,  impossible !  " 

"  Such  things  have  been,  my  mother,  nor  are  they  uncom- 
mon :  men  will  hazard  their  souls,  ay,  and  what  to  some  are 
more  precious  still,  their  lives  too,  for  the  vile  clay  we  call 
money.  But  enough  of  this  now:  the  Law,  —  that  great  ar- 
biter,—  that  eater  of  the  oyster,  and  divider  of  its  shells, — 


DEVEREUX.  197 

the  LaTv  will  decide  between  us,  and  if  against  me,  as  I  sup- 
pose and  fear  the  decision  will  be,  —  why,  I  must  be  a  suitor 
to  fortune  instead  of  her  commander.  Give  me  your  bless- 
ing, my  dearest  mother :  I  cannot  stay  longer  in  this  house ; 
to-morrow  I  leave  you." 

And  my  mother  did  bless  me,  and  I  fell  upon  her  neck  and 
clung  to  it.  "Ah!"  thought  I,  "this  blessing  is  almost 
worth  my  uncle's  fortune." 

I  returned  to  my  room;  there  I  saw  on  the  table  the  case 
of  the  sword  sent  me  by  the  French  king,  I  had  left  it  with 
my  uncle,  on  my  departure  to  town,  and  it  had  been  found 
among  his  effects  and  reclaimed  by  me.  I  took  out  the 
sword,  and  drew  it  from  the  scabbard.  "  Come, '"  said  I,  and 
I  kindled  with  a  melancholy  yet  a  deep  enthusiasm,  as  I 
looked  along  the  blade,  "come,  ray  bright  friend,  with  thee 
through  this  labyrinth  which  we  call  the  world  will  I  carve 
my  way!  Fairest  and  speediest  of  earth's  levellers,  thou 
makest  the  path  from  the  low  valley  to  the  steep  hill,  and 
shapest  the  soldier's  axe  into  the  monarch's  sceptre!  The 
laurel  and  the  fasces,  and  the  curule  car,  and  the  emperor's 
purple, —  what  are  these  but  thy  playthings,  alternately  thy 
scorn  and  thy  reward!  Founder  of  all  empires,  propagator 
of  all  creeds,  thou  leddest  the  Gaul  and  the  Goth,  and  the 
gods  of  Eome  and  Greece  crumbled  upon  their  altars!  Be- 
neath thee  the  fires  of  the  Gheber  waved  pale,  and  on  thy 
point  the  badge  of  the  camel-driver  blazed  like  a  sun  over  the 
startled  East!  Eternal  arbiter,  and  unconquerable  despot, 
while  the  passions  of  mankind  exist!  Most  solemn  of  hyp- 
ocrites,—  circling  blood  with  glory  as  with  a  halo;  and  conse- 
crating homicide  and  massacre  with  a  hollow  name,  which 
the  parched  throat  of  thy  votary,  in  the  battle  and  the  agony, 
shouteth  out  with  its  last  breath!  Star  of  all  human  des- 
tinies! I  kneel  before  thee,  and  invoke  from  thy  bright 
astrology  an  omen  and  a  smile." 


198  DEVEREUX. 


CHAPTEE  IV. 

AX   EPISODE.  THE   SON     OF    THE     GREATEST     MAN"    WHO     (OXE 

OXLY  excepted)  EVEB  ROSE  TO  A  THRONE,  BUT  BY  XO 
JVIEAXS  OF  THE  GREATEST  MAX  (sATE  OXE)  WHO  EVER 
EXISTED. 

Before  sunrise  the  next  morning  I  had  commenced  my 
return  to  London.  I  had  previously  intrusted  to  the  locum 
tenens  of  the  sage  Desmarais,  the  royal  gift,  and  (singular 
conjunction!)  poor  Ponto,  my  uncle's  dog.  Here  let  me 
pause,  as  I  shall  have  no  other  opportunity  to  mention  him, 
to  record  the  fate  of  the  canine  bequest.  He  accompanied 
me  some  years  afterwards  to  France,  and  he  died  there  in  ex- 
treme age.  I  shed  tears  as  I  saw  the  last  relic  of  my  poor 
uncle  expire,  and  I  was  not  consoled  even  though  he  was 
buried  in  the  garden  of  the  gallant  Yillars,  and  immortalized 
by  an  epitaph  from  the  pen  of  the  courtly  Chaulieu. 

Leaving  my  horse  to  select  his  own  pace,  I  surrendered 
myself  to  reflection  upon  the  strange  alteration  that  had  taken 
place  in  my  fortunes.  There  did  not,  in  my  own  mind,  rest 
a  dwubt  but  that  some  villany  had  been  practised  with  respect 
to  the  will.  My  uncle's  constant  and  unvarying  favour 
towards  me ;  the  unequivocal  expressions  he  himself  from  time 
to  time  had  dropped  indicative  of  his  future  intentions  on  my 
behalf;  the  easy  and  natural  manner  in  which  he  had  seemed 
to  consider,  as  a  thing  of  course,  my  heritage  and  succession 
to  his  estates;  all,  coupled  with  his  own  frank  and  kindly 
character,  so  little  disposed  to  raise  hopes  which  he  meant  to 
disappoint,  might  alone  have  been  sufficient  to  arouse  my  sus- 
picions at  a  devise  so  contrary  to  all  past  experience  of  the 
testator.  But  when  to  these  were  linked  the  bold  temper  and 
the  daring  intellect  of  my  brother,  joined  to  his  personal 
hatred  to  myself;  his  close  intimacy  with  Montreuil,  whom  I 


DEVEREUX.  199 

believed  capable  of  the  darkest  designs;  the  sudden  and  evi- 
dently concealed  appearance  of  the  latter  on  the  day  my  uncle 
died;  the  agitation  and  paleness  of  the  attorney;  the  enor- 
mous advantages  accruing  to  Gerald,  and  to  no  one  else,  from 
the  terms  of  the  devise :  when  these  were  all  united  into  one 
focus  of  evidence,  they  appeared  to  me  to  leave  no  doubt  of 
the  forgery  of  the  testament  and  the  crime  of  Gerald.  Nor 
was  there  anything  in  my  brother's  bearing  and  manner 
calculated  to  abate  my  suspicions.  His  agitation  was  real; 
his  surprise  might  have  been  feigned;  his  offer  of  assist- 
ance in  investigation  was  an  unmeaning  bravado;  his  con- 
duct to  myself  testified  his  continued  ill-will  towards  me, 
—  an  ill-will  which  might  possibly  have  instigated  him 
in  the  fraud  scarcely  less  than  the  whispers  of  interest  and 
cupidity. 

But  while  this  was  the  natural  and  indelible  impression  on 
my  mind,  I  could  not  disguise  from  myself  the  extreme  diffi- 
culty I  should  experience  in  resisting  my  brother's  claim. 
So  far  as  my  utter  want  of  all  legal  knowledge  would  allow 
me  to  decide,  I  could  perceive  nothing  in  the  will  itself  which 
would  admit  of  a  lawyer's  successful  cavil:  my  reasons  for 
suspicion,  so  conclusive  to  myself,  would  seem  nugatory  to 
a  judge.  My  uncle  was  known  as  a  humourist;  and  prove  that 
a  man  differs  from  others  in  one  thing,  and  the  world  will 
believe  that  he  differs  from  them  in  a  thousand.  His  favour 
to  me  would  be,  in  the  popular  eye,  only  an  eccentricity,  and 
the  unlooked-for  disposition  of  his  will  only  a  caprice.  Pos- 
session, too,  gave  Gerald  a  proverbial  vantage-ground,  which 
my  whole  life  might  be  wasted  in  contesting;  while  his  com- 
mand of  an  immense  wealth  might,  more  than  probably, 
exhaust  my  spirit  by  delay,  and  my  fortune  by  expenses. 
Precious  prerogative  of  law,  to  reverse  the  attribute  of  the 
Almighty !  to  fill  the  rich  with  good  things,  but  to  send  the 
poor  empty  away!  In  corruptissima  republica  plurimcB 
leges.  Legislation  perplexed  is  synonymous  with  crime  un- 
punished,—  a  reflection,  by  the  way,  I  should  never  have 
made,  if  I  had  never  had  a  law-suit:  sufferers  are  ever 
reformers. 


200  DEVEREUX. 

Eevolving,  then,  these  anxious  and  unpleasing  thoughts, 
interrupted,  at  times,  by  regrets  of  a  purer  and  less  sellish 
nature  for  the  friend  I  had  lost,  and  -wandering,  at  others,  to 
the  brighter  anticipations  of  rejoining  Isora,  and  drinking 
from  her  eyes  my  comfort  for  the  past  and  my  hope  for  the 
future,  I  continued  and  concluded  my  day's  travel. 

The  next  day,  on  resuming  my  journey,  and  on  feeling  the 
time  approach  that  would  bring  me  to  Isora,  something  like 
joy  became  the  most  prevalent  feeling  in  my  mind.  So  true 
it  is  that  misfortunes  little  affect  us  so  long  as  we  have  some 
ulterior  object,  which,  by  arousing  hope,  steals  us  from  afflic- 
tion. Alas !  the  pang  of  a  moment  becomes  intolerable  when 
we  know  of  nothing  beyond  the  moment  which  it  soothes  us 
to  anticipate!  Happiness  lives  in  the  light  of  the  future: 
attack  the  present;  she  defies  you!  darken  the  future,  and 
you  destroy  her! 

It  was  a  beautiful  morning:  through  the  vapours,  which 
rolled  slowly  away  beneath  his  beams,  the  sun  broke  glori- 
ously forth;  and  over  wood  and  hill,  and  the  low  plains, 
which,  covered  with  golden  corn,  stretched  immediately 
before  me,  his  smile  lay  in  stillness,  but  in  joy.  And  ever 
from  out  the  brake  and  the  scattered  copse,  which  at  fre- 
quent intervals  beset  the  road,  the  merry  birds  sent  a  fitful 
and  glad  music  to  mingle  with  the  sweets  and  freshness  of 
the  air. 

I  had  accomplished  the  greater  part  of  my  journey,  and  had 
entered  into  a  more  wooded  and  garden-like  description  of 
country,  when  I  perceived  an  old  man,  in  a  kind  of  low  chaise, 
vainly  endeavouring  to  hold  in  a  little  but  spirited  horse, 
which  had  taken  alarm  at  some  object  on  the  road,  and  was 
running  away  with  its  driver.  The  age  of  the  gentleman 
and  the  lightness  of  the  chaise  gave  me  some  alarm  for  the 
safety  of  the  driver;  so,  tying  my  own  horse  to  a  gate,  lest 
the  sound  of  his  hoofs  might  only  increase  the  speed  and  fear 
of  the  fugitive,  I  ran  with  a  swift  and  noiseless  step  along 
the  other  side  of  the  hedge  and,  coming  out  into  the  road  just 
before  the  pony's  head,  I  succeeded  in  arresting  him,  at  a 
rather  critical  spot  and  moment.     The  old  gentleman  very 


DEVEREUX.  201 

soon  recovered  his  alarm;  and,  returning  me  many  thanks  for 
my  interference,  requested  me  to  accompany  him  to  his  house, 
which  he  said  was  two  or  three  miles  distant. 

Though  I  had  no  desire  to  be  delayed  in  my  journey  for  the 
mere  sake  of  seeing  an  old  gentleman's  house,  I  thought  my 
new  acquaintance's  safety  required  me,  at  least,  to  offer  to 
act  as  his  charioteer  till  we  reached  his  house.  To  my  secret 
vexation  at  that  time,  though  I  afterwards  thought  the  petty 
inconvenience  was  amply  repaid  by  a  conference  with  a  very 
singular  and  once  noted  character,  the  offer  was  accepted. 
Surrendering  my  own  steed  to  the  care  of  a  ragged  boy,  Avho 
promised  to  lead  it  with  equal  judgment  and  zeal,  I  entered 
the  little  car,  and,  keeping  a  firm  hand  and  constant  eye  on 
the  reins,  brought  the  offending  quadruped  into  a  very 
equable  and  sedate  pace. 

"Poor  Bob,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  apostrophizing  his 
horse;  "poor  Bob,  like  thy  betters,  thou  knowest  the  weak 
hand  from  the  strong;  and  when  thou  art  not  held  in  by 
power,  thou  wilt  chafe  against  love ;  so  that  thou  renewest  in 
my  mind  the  remembrance  of  its  favourite  maxim,  namely, 
'The  only  preventive  to  rebellion  is  restraint!'" 

"  Your  observation.  Sir, "  said  I,  rather  struck  by  this  ad- 
dress, "  makes  very  little  in  favour  of  the  more  generous  feel- 
ings by  which  we  ought  to  be  actuated.  It  is  a  base  mind 
which  always  requires  the  bit  and  bridle." 

"It  is,  Sir,"  answered  the  old  gentleman;  "I  allow  it:  but, 
though  I  have  some  love  for  human  nature,  I  have  no  respect 
for  it;  and  while  I  pity  its  infirmities,  I  cannot  but  confess 
them." 

"Methinks,  Sir,"  replied  I,  "that  you  have  uttered  in  that 
short  speech  more  sound  philosophy  than  I  have  heard  for 
months.  There  is  wisdom  in  not  thinking  too  loftily  of  hu- 
man clay,  and  benevolence  in  not  judging  it  too  harshly,  and 
something,  too,  of  magnanimity  in  this  moderation;  for  we 
seldom  contemn  mankind  till  they  have  hurt  us,  and  when 
they  have  hurt  us,  we  seldom  do  anything  but  detest  them 
for  the  injury." 

"  You  speak  shrewdly.  Sir,  for  one  so  young, "  returned  the 


202  DEVEREUX. 

old  man,  looking  hard  at  me ;  ''  and  I  will  be  sworn  you  have 
suffered  some  cares ;  for  we  never  begin  to  think  till  we  are  a 
little  afraid  to  hope." 

I  sighed  as  I  answered,  "  There  are  some  men,  I  fancy,  to 
whom  constitution  supplies  the  office  of  care ;  who,  naturally 
melancholy,  become  easily  addicted  to  reflection,  and  reflec- 
tion is  a  soil  which  soon  repays  us  for  whatever  trouble  we 
bestow  upon  its  culture." 

"True,  Sir!"  said  my  companion;  and  there  was  a  pause. 
The  old  gentleman  resumed :  "  We  are  not  far  from  my  home 
now  (or  rather  my  temporary  residence,  for  my  proper  and 
general  home  is  at  Cheshunt,  in  Hertfordshire) ;  and,  as  the 
day  is  scarcely  half  spent,  I  trust  you  will  not  object  to  par- 
take of  a  hermit's  fare.  Nay,  nay,  no  excuse:  I  assure  you 
that  I  am  not  a  gossip  in  general,  or  a  liberal  dispenser  of 
invitations;  and  I  think,  if  you  refuse  me  now,  you  will 
hereafter  regret  it." 

My  curiosity  was  rather  excited  by  this  threat;  and,  reflect- 
ing that  my  horse  required  a  short  rest,  I  subdued  my  impa- 
tience to  return  to  town,  and  accepted  the  invitation.  AVe 
came  presently  to  a  house  of  moderate  size,  and  rather  an- 
tique fashion.  This,  the  old  man  informed  me,  was  his  pres- 
ent abode.  A  servant,  almost  as  old  as  his  master,  came  to 
the  door,  and,  giving  his  arm  to  my  host,  led  him,  for  he  was 
rather  lame  and  otherwise  infirm,  across  a  small  hall  into  a 
long  low  apartment.     I  followed. 

A  miniature  of  Oliver  Cromwell,  placed  over  the  chimney- 
piece,  forcibly  arrested  my  attention. 

"  It  is  the  only  portrait  of  the  Protector  I  ever  saw, "  said 
I,  "  which  impresses  on  me  the  certainty  of  a  likeness ;  that 
resolute  gloomy  brow,  —  that  stubborn  lip,  —  that  heav}^,  yet 
not  stolid  expression,  —  all  seem  to  warrant  a  resemblance  to 
that  singular  and  fortunate  man,  to  whom  folly  appears  to 
have  been  as  great  an  instrument  of  success  as  wisdom,  and 
who  rose  to  the  supreme  power  perhaps  no  less  from  a  pitia- 
ble fanaticism  than  an  admirable  genius.  So  true  is  it  that 
great  men  often  soar  to  their  height  by  qualities  the  least  ob- 
vious to  the  spectator,  and  (to  stoop  to  a  low  comparison) 


DEVEREUX.  203 

resemble  that  animal  ^  in  whicli  a  common  ligament  supplies 
the  place  and  possesses  the  property  of  wings." 

The  old  man  smiled  very  slightly  as  I  made  this  remark. 
"If  this  be  true,"  said  he,  with  an  impressive  tone,  "though 
we  may  wonder  less  at  the  talents  of  the  Protector,  we  must 
be  more  indulgent  to  his  character,  nor  condemn  him  for  in- 
sincerity when  at  heart  he  himself  was  deceived." 

"It  is  in  that  light,"  said  I,  "that  I  have  always  viewed 
his  conduct.  And  though  m3'self,  by  prejudice,  a  Cavalier 
and  a  Tory,  I  own  that  Cromwell  (liypocrite  as  he  is  es- 
teemed) appears  to  me  as  much  to  have  exceeded  his  royal 
antagonist  and  victim  in  the  virtue  of  sincerity,  as  he  did  in 
the  grandeur  of  his  genius  and  the  profound  consistency  of 
his  ambition." 

"Sir,"  said  my  host,  with  a  warmth  that  astonished  me, 
"you  seem  to  have  known  that  man,  so  justly  do  you  judge 
him.  Yes,"  said  he,  after  a  pause,  "yes,  perhaps  no  one 
ever  so  varnished  to  his  own  breast  his  designs ;  no  one,  so 
covetous  of  glory,  was  ever  so  duped  by  conscience ;  no  one 
ever  rose  to  such  a  height  through  so  few  acts  that  seemed  to 
himself  worthy  of  remorse." 

At  this  part  of  our  conversation,  the  servant,  entering, 
announced  dinner.  We  adjourned  to  another  room,  and  par- 
took of  a  homely  yet  not  uninviting  repast.  When  men  are 
pleased  with  each  other,  conversation  soon  gets  beyond  the 
ordinary  surfaces  to  talk;  and  an  exchange  of  deeper  opin- 
ions was  speedily  effected  by  what  old  Barnes  ^  quaintly 
enough  terms,  "The  gentleman -usher  of  all  knowledge, — 
Sermocination ! " 

It  was  a  pretty,  though  small  room,  where  we  dined;  and  I 
observed  that  in  this  apartment,  as  in  the  other  into  which  I 
had  been  at  first  ushered,  there  were  several  books  scattered 
about,  in  that  confusion  and  number  which  show  that  they 
have  become  to  their  owner  both  the  choicest  luxury  and  the 
least  dispensable  necessary.  So,  during  dinner-time,  we 
talked  principally  upon  books,  and  I  observed  that  those 
which  my  host  seemed  to  know  the  best  were  of  the  elegant 
^  The  flying  squirrel.  ^  i^  tjig  «  Gerania." 


204  DEVEREUX. 

and  poetical  order  of  philosophers,  who,  more  fascinating 
than  deep,  preach  up  the  blessings  of  a  solitude  which  is  use- 
less, and  a  content  which,  deprived  of  passion,  excitement, 
and  energy,  would,  if  it  could  ever  exist,  only  be  a  dignified 
name  for  vegetation. 

"  So, "  said  he,  when,  the  dinner  being  removed,  we  were 
left  alone  with  that  substitute  for  all  society,  —  wine!  "so 
you  are  going  to  town :  in  four  hours  more  you  will  be  in  that 
great  focus  of  noise,  falsehood,  hollow  joy,  and  real  sorrow. 
Do  you  know  that  I  have  become  so  wedded  to  the  country 
that  I  cannot  but  consider  all  those  who  leave  it  for  the  tur- 
bulent city,  in  the  same  light,  half  wondering,  half  compas- 
sionating, as  that  in  which  the  ancients  regarded  the  hardy 
adventurers  who  left  the  safe  land  and  their  happy  homes, 
voluntarily  to  expose  themselves  in  a  frail  vessel  to  the  dan- 
gers of  an  uncertain  sea?  Here,  when  I  look  out  on  the 
green  fields  and  the  blue  sky,  the  quiet  herds  basking  in  the 
sunshine  or  scattered  over  the  unpolluted  plains,  I  cannot 
but  exclaim  with  Pliny,  'This  is  the  true  Movaetovl '  this  is  the 
source  whence  flow  inspiration  to  the  mind  and  tranquillity 
to  the  heart!  And  in  my  love  of  Nature  —  more  confiding 
and  constant  than  ever  is  the  love  we  bear  to  women  —  I  cry 
with  the  tender  and  sweet  Tibullus, — 

"  '  Ego  composito  securus  acervo 
Despiciam  dites,  despiciamque  famem.' "  ^ 

"These,"  said  I,  "are  the  sentiments  we  all  (perhaps  the 
most  restless  of  us  the  most  passionately)  at  times  experience. 
But  there  is  in  our  hearts  some  secret  but  irresistible  princi- 
ple that  impels  us,  as  a  rolling  circle,  onward,  onward,  in  the 
great  orbit  of  our  destiny ;  nor  do  we  find  a  respite  until  the 
wheels  on  which  we  move  are  broken  —  at  the  tomb." 

"Yet,"  said  my  host,  "the  internal  principle  you  speak  of 
can  be  arrested  before  the  grave, —  at  least  stilled  and  im- 
peded. You  will  smile  incredulously,  perhaps  (for  I  see  you 
do  not  know  who  I  am),  when  I  tell  you  that  I  might  once 

^  "  Satisfied  with  my  little  hoard,  I  can  despise  wealth,  and  fear  not 
hunger." 


DEVEREUX.  205 

have  been  a  monarch,  and  that  obscurity  seemed  to  me  more 
enviable  than  empire;  I  resigned  the  occasion:  the  tide  of 
fortune  rolled  onward,  and  left  me  safe  but  solitary  and  for- 
saken upon  the  dry  land.  If  you  wonder  at  my  choice,  you 
will  wonder  still  more  when  I  tell  you  that  I  have  never 
repented  it." 

Greatly  surprised,  and  even  startled,  I  heard  my  host  make 
this  strange  avowal.  "Forgive  me,"  said  I,  "but  you  have 
powerfully  excited  my  interest;  dare  I  inquire  from  whose 
experience  I  am  now  deriving  a  lesson?" 

"Not  yet,"  said  my  host,  smiling,  "not  till  our  conversation 
is  over,  and  you  have  bid  the  old  anchorite  adieu,  in  all  prob- 
ability forever:  you  will  then  know  that  you  have  conversed 
with  a  man,  perhaps  more  universally  neglected  and  con- 
temned than  any  of  his  contemporaries.  Yes,"  he  continued, 
"yes,  I  resigned  power,  and  I  got  no  praise  for  my  modera- 
tion, but  contempt  for  my  folly;  no  human  being  would  be- 
lieve that  I  could  have  relinquished  that  treasure  through  a 
disregard  for  its  possession  which  others  would  only  have 
relinquished  through  an  incapacity  to  retain  it;  and  that 
which,  had  they  seen  it  recorded  in  an  ancient  history,  men 
would  have  regarded  as  the  height  of  philosophy,  they  de- 
spised when  acted  under  their  eyes,  as  the  extremest  abase- 
ment of  imbecility.  Yet  I  compare  my  lot  with  that  of  the 
great  man  whom  I  was  expected  to  equal  in  ambition,  and  to 
whose  grandeur  I  might  have  succeeded;  and  am  convinced 
that  in  this  retreat  I  am  more  to  be  envied  than  he  in  the 
plenitude  of  his  power  and  the  height  of  his  renown ;  yet  is 
not  happiness  the  aim  of  wisdom?  if  my  choice  is  happier 
than  his,   is  it  not  wiser?" 

"Alas,"  thought  I,  "the  wisest  men  seldom  have  the  lofti- 
est genius,  and  perhaps  happiness  is  granted  rather  to  medioc- 
rity of  mind  than  to  mediocrity  of  circumstance;  "  but  I  did 
not  give  so  uncourteous  a  reply  to  my  host  an  audible  utter- 
ance; on  the  contrary,  "I  do  not  doubt,"  said  I,  as  I  rose  to 
depart,  "the  wisdom  of  a  choice  which  has  brought  you  self- 
gratulation.  And  it  has  been  said  by  a  man  both  great  and 
good,  a  man  to  whose  mind  was  open  the  lore  of  the  closet 


206  DEVEREUX. 

and  the  experience  of  courts  that,  in  wisdom  or  in  folly,  'the 
only  difference  between  one  man  and  another,  is  whether  a  man 
governs  his  passions  or  his  passions  him. '  According  to  this 
rule,  which  indeed  is  a  classic  and  a  golden  aphorism,  Alex- 
ander, on  the  throne  of  Persia,  might  have  heen  an  idiot  to 
Diogenes  in  his  tub.  And  now,  Sir,  in  wishing  you  farewell, 
let  me  again  crave  your  indulgence  to  my  curiosity." 

"Not  yet,  not  yet,"  answered  my  host;  and  he  led  me  once 
more  into  the  other  room.  While  they  were  preparing  my 
horse,  we  renewed  our  conversation.  To  the  best  of  my  rec- 
ollection, we  talked  about  Plato;  but  I  had  now  become  so 
impatient  to  rejoin  Isora  that  I  did  not  accord  to  my  worthy 
host  the  patient  attention  I  had  hitherto  given  him.  When  I 
took  leave  of  him  he  blessed  me,  and  placed  a  piece  of  paper 
in  my  hand;  "Do  not  open  this,"  said  he,  "till  you  are  at 
least  two  miles  hence;  your  curiosity  will  then  be  satisfied. 
If  ever  you  travel  this  road  again,  or  if  ever  you  pass  by 
Cheshunt,  pause  and  see  if  the  old  philosopher  is  dead. 
Adieu!" 

And  so  we  parted. 

You  may  be  sure  that  I  had  not  passed  the  appointed  dis- 
tance of  two  miles  very  far,  when  I  opened  the  paper  and 
read  the  following  words :  — 

Perhaps,  young  stranger,  at  some  future  period  of  a  life,  which  I 
venture  to  foretell  will  be  adventurous  and  eventful,  it  may  afford  you  a 
matter  for  reflection,  or  a  resting-spot  for  a  moral,  to  remember  that  you 
have  seen,  in  old  age  and  obscurity,  the  son  of  him  who  shook  an  empire, 
avenged  a  people,  and  obtained  a  throne,  only  to  be  the  victim  of  his 
own  passions  and  the  dupe  of  his  own  reason.  I  repeat  now  the  ques- 
tion I  before  put  to  you,  —  Was  the  fate  of  the  great  Protector  fairer 

than  that  of  the  despised  and  forgotten 

Richard  Cromwell? 

"So,"  thought  I,  "it  is  indeed  with  the  son  of  the  greatest 
ruler  England,  or  perhaps,  in  modern  times,  Europe  has  ever 
produced,  that  I  have  held  this  conversation  wpon  content! 
Yes,  perhaps  your  fate  Is  more  to  be  envied  than  that  of  your 
illustrious   father;    but  who  would  envy  it  more?     Strange 


DEVEREUX.  207 

that  while  we  pretend  that  happiness  is  the  object  of  all  de- 
sire, happiness  is  the  last  thing  which  we  covet.  Love  and 
wealth  and  pleasure  and  honour, —  these  are  the  roads  which 
we  take  so  long  that,  accustomed  to  the  mere  travel,  we  for- 
get that  it  was  first  undertaken  not  for  the  course  but  the 
goal ;  and  in  the  common  infatuation  which  pervades  all  our 
race,  we  make  the  toil  the  meed,  and  in  following  the  means 
forsake  the  end." 

I  never  saw  my  host  again;  very  shortly  afterwards  he 
died :  ^  and  Fate,  which  had  marked  with  so  strong  a  separa- 
tion the  lives  of  the  father  and  the  son,  united  in  that  death 
—  as  its  greatest,  so  its  only  universal  blessing  —  the  philoso- 
pher and  the  recluse  with  the  warrior  and  the  chief! 


CHAPTER  V. 

IN     WHICH     THE     HERO     SHOWS      DECISION     ON     MORE     POINTS 
THAN   ONE.  —  MORE    OF    ISORA's    CHARACTER   IS    DEVELOPED. 

To  use  the  fine  image  in  the  "Arcadia,"  it  was  "when  the 
sun,  like  a  noble  heart,  began  to  show  his  greatest  counte- 
nance in  his  lowest  estate,"  that  I  arrived  at  Isora's  door.  I 
had  written  to  her  once,  to  announce  my  uncle's  death  and 
the  day  of  my  return :  but  I  had  not  mentioned  in  my  letter 
my  reverse  of  fortunes ;  I  reserved  that  communication  till  it 
could  be  softened  by  our  meeting.  I  saw  by  the  countenance 
of  the  servant  who  admitted  me  that  all  was  well :  so  I  asked 
no  question;  I  flew  up  the  stairs;  I  broke  into  Isora's  cham- 
ber, and  in  an  instant  she  was  in  my  arms.  Ah,  Love,  Love ! 
wherefore  art  thou  so  transitory  a  pilgrim  on  the  earth, — an 
evening  cloud  which  hovers  on  our  horizon,  drinking  the  hues 
of  the  sun,  that  grows  ominously  brighter  as  it  verges  to  the 
shadow  and  the  night,  and  which,  the  moment  that  sun  is  set, 
wanders  on  in  darkness  or  descends  in  tears? 

1  Richard  Cromwell  died  in  1712.  — Ed. 


208  DEVEEEUX. 

"  And  now,  my  bird  of  Paradise, "  said  I,  as  we  sat  alone  in 
the  apartment  I  had  fitted  up  as  the  banqueting-room,  and 
on  which,  though  small  in  its  proportions,  I  had  lavished  all 
the  love  of  luxury  and  of  show  which  made  one  of  my  most 
prevailing  weaknesses,  "  and  now  how  has  time  passed  with 
you  since  we  parted?" 

"ISTeed  you  ask,  Morton?  Ah,  have  you  ever  noted  a  poor 
dog  deserted  by  its  master,  or  rather  not  deserted,  for  that 
you  know  is  not  my  case  yet,"  added  Isora,  playfully,  "but 
left  at  home  while  the  master  went  abroad?  have  you  noted 
how  restless  the  poor  animal  is;  how  it  refuses  all  company 
and  all  comfort;  how  it  goes  a  hundred  times  a  day  into  the 
room  which  its  master  is  wont  mostly  to  inhabit;  how  it 
creeps  on  the  sofa  or  the  chair  which  the  same  absent  idler 
was  accustomed  to  press;  how  it  selects  some  article  of  his 
very  clothing,  and  curls  jealously  around  it,  and  hides  and 
watches  over  it  as  I  have  hid  and  watched  over  this  glove, 
Morton?  Have  you  ever  noted  that  humble  creature  whose 
whole  happiness  is  the  smile  of  one  being,  when  the  smile 
was  away,  —  then,  Morton,  you  can  tell  how  my  time  has 
passed  during  your  absence." 

I  answered  Isora  by  endearments  and  by  compliments.  She 
turned  away  from  the  latter. 

"Never  call  me  those  fine  names,  I  implore  you,"  she  whis- 
pered; "call  me  only  by  those  pretty  pet  words  by  which  I 
know  you  will  never  call  any  one  else.  Bee  and  bird  are 
my  names,  and  mine  only;  but  beauty  and  angel  are 
names  you  have  given  or  may  give  to  a  hundred  others! 
Promise  me,  then,  to  address  me  only  in  your  own  language." 

"  I  promise,  and  lo,  the  seal  to  the  promise.  But  tell  me, 
Isora,  do  you  not  love  these  rare  scents  that  make  an  Araby 
of  this  unmellowed  clime?  Do  you  not  love  the  profusion 
of  light  which  reflects  so  dazzling  a  lustre  on  that  soft  cheek; 
and  those  ejes  which  the  ancient  romancer  *  must  have  dreamed 
of  when  he  wrote  so  prettily  of  "  eyes  that  seemed  a  temple 

^  Sir  Philip  Sydney,  who,  if  we  may  judge  from  the  number  of  quotations 
from  his  works  scattered  in  this  book,  seems  to  have  been  an  especial  favour- 
ite with  Count  Devereux.  —  Ed. 


DEVEREUX.  209 

where  love  and  beauty  were  married"?  Does  not  yon  fruit 
take  a  more  tempting  hue,  bedded  as  it  is  in  those  golden 
leaves?  Does  not  sleep  seem  to  hover  with  a  downier  wing 
over  those  sofas  on  which  the  limbs  of  a  princess  have  been 
laid?  In  a  word,  is  there  not  in  luxury  and  in  pomp  a  spell 
which  no  gentler  or  wiser  mind  would  disdain?  " 

"  It  may  be  so !  "  said  Isora,  sighing ;  "  but  the  splendour 
which  surrounds  us  chills  and  almost  terrifies  me.  I  think 
that  every  proof  of  your  wealth  and  rank  puts  me  further 
from  you :  then,  too,  I  have  some  remembrance  of  the  green 
sod,  and  the  silver  rill,  and  the  trees  upon  which  the  young 
winds  sing  and  play;  and  I  own  that  it  is  with  the  country, 
and  not  the  town,  that  all  my  ideas  of  luxury  are  wed." 

"But  the  numerous  attendants,  the  long  row  of  liveried 
hirelings,  through  which  you  may  pass,  as  through  a  lane, 
the  caparisoned  steeds,  the  stately  equipage,  the  jewelled 
tiara,  the  costly  robe  which  matrons  imitate  and  envy,  the 
music,  which  lulls  you  to  sleep,  the  lighted  show,  the  gor- 
geous stage, —  all  these,  the  attributes  or  gifts  of  wealth,  all 
these  that  you  have  the  right  to  hope  you  will  one  day  or 
other  command,  you  will  own  are  what  you  could  very  reluc- 
tantly forego," 

"Do  you  think  so,  Morton?  Ah,  I  wish  you  were  of  my 
humble  temper :  the  more  we  limit  and  concentre  happiness, 
the  more  certain,  I  think,  we  are  of  securing  it;  they  who 
widen  the  circle  encroach  upon  the  boundaries  of  danger ;  and 
they  who  freight  their  wealth  upon  a  hundred  vessels  are 
more  liable,  Morton,  are  they  not?  to  the  peril  of  the  winds 
and  the  waves  than  they  who  venture  it  only  upon  one." 

"Admirably  reasoned,  my  little  sophist;  but  if  the  one 
ship  sink?" 

"  Why,  I  would  embark  myself  in  it  as  well  as  my  wealth, 
and  should  sink  with  it." 

"  Well,  well,  Isora,  your  philosophy  will,  perhaps,  soon  be 
put  to  the  test.     I  will  talk  to  you  to-morrow  of  business." 

"And  why  not  to-night?  " 

"  To-night,  when  I  have  just  returned !  No,  to-night  I  will 
only  talk  to  you  of  love !  " 

14 


210  DEVEREUX. 

As  may  be  supposed,  Isora  was  readily  reconciled  to  my 
change  of  circumstances ;  and  indeed  that  sum  which  seemed 
poverty  to  me  appeared  positive  wealth  to  her.  But  perhaps 
few  men  are  by  nature  and  inclination  more  luxurious  and 
costly  than  myself;  always  accustomed  to  a  profuse  expend- 
iture at  my  uncle's,  I  fell  insensibly  and  con  amo7'e,  on  my 
debut  in  London,  into  all  the  extravagances  of  the  age.  Sir 
William,  pleased  rather  than  discontented  with  my  habits, 
especially  as  they  were  attended  with  some  eclat,  pressed  upon 
me  proofs  of  his  generosity  which,  since  I  knew  his  wealth 
and  considered  myself  his  heir,  I  did  not  scruple  to  accept, 
and  at  the  time  of  my  return  to  London  after  his  death,  I 
had  not  only  spent  to  the  full  the  princely  allowance  I  had 
received  from  him,  but  was  above  half  my  whole  fortune  in 
debt.  However,  I  had  horses  and  equipages,  jewels  and 
plate,  and  I  did  not  long  wrestle  with  my  pride  before  I  ob- 
tained the  victory,  and  sent  all  my  valuables  to  the  hammer. 
They  sold  pretty  well,  all  things  considered,  for  I  had  a  cer- 
tain reputation  in  the  world  for  taste  and  munificence ;  and 
when  I  had  received  the  product  and  paid  my  debts,  I  found 
that  the  whole  balance  in  my  favour,  including,  of  course, 
my  uncle's  legacy,   was  fifteen  thousand  pounds. 

It  was  no  bad  younger  brother's  portion,  perhaps,  but  I 
was  in  no  humour  to  be  made  a  younger  brother  without  a 
struggle.  So  I  went  to  the  lawyers ;  they  looked  at  the  will, 
considered  the  case,  and  took  their  fees.  Then  the  honestest 
of  them,  with  the  coolest  air  in  the  world,  told  me  to  content 
myself  with  my  legacy,  for  the  cause  was  hopeless ;  the  will 
was  sufficient  to  exclude  a  wilderness  of  elder  sons.  I  need 
not  add  that  I  left  this  lawyer  with  a  very  contemptible  opin- 
ion of  his  understanding.  I  went  to  another,  he  told  me  the 
same  thing,  only  in  a  different  manner,  and  I  thought  him  as 
great  a  fool  as  his  fellow  practitioner.  At  last  I  chanced 
upon  a  little  brisk  gentleman,  with  a  quick  eye  and  a  sharp 
voice,  who  wore  a  wig  that  carried  conviction  in  every  curl ; 
had  an  independent,  upright  mien,  and  such  a  logical,  em- 
phatic way  of  expressing  himself,  that  I  was  quite  charmed 
with  him.      This  gentleman  scarce  heard  me  out  before  he 


DEVEREUX.  211 

assured  me  that  I  had  a  famous  case  of  it,  that  he  liked  mak- 
ing quick  work,  and  proceeding  with  vigour,  that  he  hated 
rogues,  and  delay,  which  was  the  sign  of  a  rogue,  but  not  the 
necessary  sign  of  law,  that  I  was  the  most  fortunate  man  im- 
aginable in  coming  to  him,  and,  in  short  that  I  had  nothing 
to  do  but  commence  proceedings,  and  leave  all  the  rest  to 
him.  I  was  very  soon  talked  into  this  proposal,  and  very 
soon  embarked  in  the  luxurious  ocean  of  litigation. 

Having  settled  this  business  so  satisfactorily,  I  went  to 
receive  the  condolence  and  sympathy  of  St.  John.  Xotwith- 
standing  the  arduous  occupations  both  of  pleasure  and  of 
power,  in  which  he  was  constantly  engaged,  he  had  found 
time  to  call  upon  me  very  often,  and  to  express  by  letter 
great  disappointment  that  I  had  neither  received  nor  returned 
his  visits.  Touched  by  the  phenomenon  of  so  much  kindness 
in  a  statesman,  I  paid  him  in  return  the  only  compliment  in 
my  power ;  namely,  I  asked  his  advice,  with  a  view  of  taking 
it. 

"  Politics  —  politics,  my  dear  Count, "  said  he  in  answer  to 
that  request,  "  nothing  like  it ;  I  will  get  you  a  seat  in  the 
House  by  next  week, — you  are  just  of  age,  I  think, — 
Heavens !  a  man  like  you  who  has  learning  enough  for  a  Ger- 
man professor;  assurance  that  would  almost  abash  a  Mile- 
sian; a  very  pretty  choice  of  words,  and  a  pointed  way  of 
consummating  a  jest, — why,  with  you  by  my  side,  my  dear 
Count,  I  will  soon  — " 

"St.  John,"  said  I,  interrupting  him,  "you  forget  I  am  a 
Catholic!" 

"  Ah,  I  did  forget  that,"  replied  St.  John,  slowly.  "  Heaven 
help  me,  Count,  but  I  am  sorry  your  ancestors  were  not  con- 
verted; it  was  a  pity  they  should  bequeath  you  their  religion 
without  the  estate  to  support  it,  for  papacy  has  become  a 
terrible  tax  to  its  followers." 

"  I  wonder, "  said  I,  "  whether  the  earth  will  ever  be  gov- 
erned by  Christians,  not  cavillers;  by  followers  of  our  Sav- 
iour, not  by  co-operators  of  the  devil;  by  men  who  obey  the 
former,  and  'love  one  another,'  not  by  men  who  walk  about 
with  the  latter  (that  roaring  lion),  'seeking  whom  they  may 


212  DEVEREUX. 

devour. '  Intolerance  makes  us  acquainted  with  strange  non- 
sense, and  folly  is  never  so  ludicrous  as  when  associated  with 
something  sacred;  it  is  then  like  Punch  and  his  wife  in  Pow- 
ell's puppet-show,  dancing  in  the  Ark.  For  example,  to  tell 
those  who  differ  from  us  that  they  are  in  a  delusion,  and  yet 
to  persecute  them  for  that  delusion,  is  to  equal  the  wisdom 
of  our  forefathers,  who,  we  are  told,  in  the  '  Daemonologie ' 
of  the  Scottish  Solomon,  'burned  a  whole  monasterie  of  nunnes 
for  being  misled,  not  by  men,  but  dreames  !  '  " 

And  being  somewhat  moved,  I  ran  on  for  a  long  time  in  a 
very  eloquent  strain,  upon  the  disadvantages  of  intolerance; 
which,  I  would  have  it,  was  a  policy  as  familiar  to  Protestant- 
ism now  as  it  had  been  to  Popery  in  the  dark  ages ;  quite  for- 
getting that  it  is  not  the  vice  of  a  peculiar  sect,  but  of  a 
ruling  party. 

St.  John,  who  thought  or  affected  to  think  very  differently 
from  me  on  these  subjects,  shook  his  head  gently,  but,  with 
his  usual  good  breeding,  deemed  it  rather  too  sore  a  subject 
for  discussion. 

"  I  will  tell  you  a  discovery  I  have  made, "  said  I. 

"And  what  is  it?" 

"Listen:  that  man  is  wisest  who  is  happiest, —  granted. 
What  does  happiness  consist  in?  Power,  wealth,  popularity, 
and,  above  all,  content!  Well,  then,  no  man  ever  obtains  so 
much  power,  so  much  money,  so  much  popularity,  and,  above 
all,  such  thorough  self -content  as  a  fool;  a  fool,  therefore 
(this  is  no  paradox),  is  the  wisest  of  men.  Pools  govern  the 
world  in  purple :  the  wise  laugh  at  them ;  but  they  laugh  in 
rags.  Pools  thrive  at  court;  fools  thrive  in  state  chambers; 
fools  thrive  in  boudoirs;  fools  thrive  in  rich  men's  legacies. 
Who  is  so  beloved  as  a  fool?  Every  man  seeks  him,  laughs 
at  him,  and  hugs  him.  Who  is  so  secure  in  his  own  opinion, 
so  high  in  complacency,  as  a  fool?  sxia  virtute  involint.  Hark 
ye,  St.  John,  let  us  turn  fools :  they  are  the  only  potentates, 
the  only  philosophers  of  earth.  Oh,  motley,  'motley's  your 
only  wear ! '  " 

"Ha!  ha!"  laughed  St.  John;  and,  rising,  he  insisted 
upon  carrying  me  with  him  to  the  rehearsal  of  a  new  play,  in 


DEVEREUX.  213 

order,  as  he  said,  to  dispel  my  spleen,  and  prepare  me  for 
ripe  decision  upon  the  plans  to  be  adopted  for  bettering  my 
fortune. 

But,  in  good  truth,  nothing  calculated  to  advance  so  com- 
fortable and  praiseworthy  an  end  seemed  to  present  itself. 
My  religion  was  an  effectual  bar  to  any  hope  of  rising  in  the 
state.  Europe  now  began  to  wear  an  aspect  that  promised 
miiversal  peace,  and  the  sword  which  I  had  so  poetically 
apostrophized  was  not  likely  to  be  drawn  upon  any  more  glo- 
rious engagement  than  a  brawl  with  the  Mohawks,  any  incau- 
tious noses  appertaining  to  which  fraternity  I  was  fully 
resolved  to  slit  whenever  they  came  conveniently  in  my  way. 
To  add  to  the  unpromising  state  of  my  worldly  circumstances, 
my  uncle's  death  had  removed  the  only  legitimate  barrier  to 
the  acknowledgment  of  my  marriage  with  Isora,  and  it  be- 
came due  to  her  to  proclaim  and  publish  that  event.  Xow,  if 
there  be  any  time  in  the  world  when  a  man's  friends  look 
upon  him  most  coldly;  when  they  speak  of  his  capacities  of 
rising  the  most  despondingly;  when  they  are  most  inclined, 
in  short,  to  set  him  down  as  a  silly  sort  of  fellow,  whom  it  is 
no  use  inconveniencing  one's  self  to  assist, —  it  is  at  that  mo- 
ment when  he  has  made  what  the  said  friends  are  pleased  to 
term  an  imprudent  marriage !  It  was,  therefore,  no  remarka- 
ble instance  of  good  luck  that  the  express  time  for  announc- 
ing that  I  had  contracted  that  species  of  marriage  was  the 
express  time  for  my  wanting  the  assistance  of  those  kind- 
hearted  friends.  Then,  too,  by  the  pleasing  sympathies  in 
worldly  opinion,  the  neglect  of  one's  friends  is  always  so 
damnably  neighboured  by  the  exultation  of  one's  foes!  Never 
was  there  a  man  who,  without  being  very  handsome,  very 
rude,  or  very  much  in  public  life,  had  made  unto  himself 
more  enemies  than  it  had  been  my  lot  to  make.  How  the 
rascals  would  all  sneer  and  coin  dull  jests  when  they  saw  me 
so  down  in  the  world !  The  very  old  maids,  who,  so  long  as 
they  thought  me  single,  would  have  declared  that  the  will 
was  a  fraud,  would,  directly  they  heard  I  was  married,  ask  if 
Gerald  was  handsome,  and  assert,  with  a  wise  look,  that  my 
uncle  knew  well  what  he  was  about.     Then  the  joy  of  the 


214  DEVEREUX. 

Lady  Hasselton,  and  the  curled  lip  of  the  haughty  Tarleton! 
It  is  a  very  odd  circumstance,  but  it  is  very  true,  that  the 
people  we  most  despise  have  the  most  influence  over  our  ac- 
tions; a  man  never  ruins  himself  by  giving  dinners  to  his 
father,  or  turning  his  house  into  a  palace  in  order  to  feast  his 
bosom  friend:  on  the  contrary,  'tis  the  poor  devil  of  a  friend 
who  fares  the  worst,  and  starves  on  the  family  joint,  while 
mine  host  beggars  himself  to  banquet  "  that  disagreeable  Mr. 
A.,  who  is  such  an  insufferable  ass,"  and  mine  hostess  sends 
her  husband  to  the  Fleet  by  vying  with  "that  odious  Mrs.  B., 
who  was  always  her  aversion!  " 

Just  in  the  same  manner,  no  thought  disturbed  me,  in  the 
step  I  was  about  to  take,  half  so  sorely  as  the  recollection  of 
Lady  Hasselton  the  coquette  and  Mr.  Tarleton  the  gambler. 
However,  I  have  said  somewhere  or  other  that  nothing  selfish 
on  a  small  scale  polluted  my  love  for  Isora, —  nor  did  there. 
I  had  resolved  to  render  her  speedy  and  full  justice ;  and  if  I 
sometimes  recurred  to  the  disadvantages  to  myself,  I  always 
had  pleasure  in  thinking  that  they  were  sacrifices  to  her.  But 
to  my  great  surprise,  when  I  first  announced  to  Isora  my  in- 
tention of  revealing  our  marriage,  I  perceived  in  her  counte- 
nance, always  such  a  traitor  to  her  emotions,  a  very  different 
expression  from  that  which  I  had  anticipated.  A  deadly 
paleness  spread  over  her  whole  face,  and  a  shudder  seemed  to 
creep  through  her  frame.  She  attempted,  however,  to  smile 
away  the  alarm  she  had  created  in  me ;  nor  was  I  able  to  pen- 
etrate the  cause  of  an  emotion  so  unlooked  for.  But  I  con- 
tinued to  speak  of  the  public  announcement  of  our  union  as 
of  a  thing  decided;  and  at  length  she  listened  to  me  while  I 
arranged  the  method  of  making  it,  and  sympathized  in  the 
future  projects  I  chalked  out  for  us  to  adopt.  Still,  however, 
when  I  proposed  a  definite  time  for  the  re-celebration  of  our 
nuptials,  she  ever  drew  back  and  hinted  the  wish  for  a  longer 
delay. 

"Not  so  soon,  dear  Morton,"  she  would  say  tearfully,  "not 
so  soon;  we  are  happy  now,  and  perhaps  when  you  are  with 
me  always  you  will  not  love  me  so  well !  " 

I  reasoned  against  this  notion,  and  this  reluctance,  but  in 


DEVEREUX.  216 

vain;  and  day  passed  on  day,  and  even  week  on  week,  and 
our  marriage  was  still  undeclared.  I  now  lived,  however,  al- 
most wholly  with  Isora,  for  busy  tongues  could  no  longer 
carry  my  secret  to  my  uncle;  and,  indeed,  since  I  had  lost 
the  fortune  which  I  was  expected  to  inherit,  it  is  astonishing 
how  little  people  troubled  their  heads  about  my  movements 
or  myself.  I  lived  then  almost  wholly  with  Isora;  and  did 
familiarity  abate  my  love?  Strange  to  say,  it  did  not  abate 
even  the  romance  of  it.  The  reader  may  possibly  remember 
a  conversation  with  St.  John  recorded  in  the  Second  Book  of 
this  history.  "The  deadliest  foe  to  love,"  said  he  (he  who 
had  known  all  love,  —  that  of  the  senses  and  that  also  of  the 
soul!),  "is  not  change,  nor  misfortune,  nor  jealousy,  nor 
wrath,  nor  anything  that  flows  from  passion  or  emanates  from 
fortune.     The  deadliest  foe  to  love  is  custom!  " 

Was  St.  John  right?  I  believe  that  in  most  instances  he 
was ;  and  perhaps  the  custom  was  not  continued  in  my  case 
long  enough  for  me  to  refute  the  maxim.  But  as  yet,  the 
very  gloss  upon  the  god's  wings  was  fresh  as  on  the  first  day 
when  I  had  acknowledged  his  power.  Still  was  Isora  to  me 
the  light  and  the  music  of  existence !  still  did  my  heart  thrill 
and  leap  within  me  when  her  silver  and  fond  voice  made  the 
air  a  blessing !  Still  would  I  hang  over  her,  when  her  beau- 
tiful features  lay  hushed  in  sleep,  and  watch  the  varying  hues 
of  her  cheek;  and  fancy,  while  she  slept,  that  in  each  low, 
sweet  breath  that  my  lips  drew  from  hers,  was  a  whisper  of 
tenderness  and  endearment!  Still  when  I  was  absent  from 
her,  my  soul  seemed  to  mourn  a  separation  from  its  better 
and  dearer  part,  and  the  joyous  senses  of  existence  saddened 
and  shrank  into  a  single  want !  Still  was  her  presence  to  my 
heart  as  a  breathing  atmosphere  of  poesy  which  circled  and 
tinted  all  human  things ;  still  was  my  being  filled  with  that 
delicious  and  vague  melancholy  which  the  very  excess  of  rap- 
ture alone  produces, —  the  knowledge  we  ^are  not  breathe  to 
ourselves  that  the  treasure  in  which  our  heart  is  stored  is  not 
above  the  casualties  of  fate.  The  sigh  that  mingles  with  the 
kiss;  the  tear  that  glistens  in  the  impassioned  and  yearning 
gaze ;  the  deep  tide  in  our  spirit,  over  which  the  moon  and 


216  DEVEREUX. 

the  stars  have  power;  the  chain  of  harmony  within  the 
thought  which  has  a  mysterious  link  with  all  that  is  fair  and 
pure  and  bright  in  Nature,  knitting  as  it  were  loveliness  with 
love !  —  all  this,  all  that  I  cannot  express ;  all  that  to  the  young 
for  whom  the  real  world  has  had  few  spells,  and  the  world  of 
visions  has  been  a  home,  who  love  at  last  and  for  the  first 
time, —  all  that  to  them  are  known  were  still  mine. 

In  truth,  Isora  was  one  well  calculated  to  sustain  and  to 
rivet  romance.  The  cast  of  her  beauty  was  so  dreamlike,  and 
yet  so  varying:  her  temper  was  so  little  mingled  with  the 
common  characteristics  of  woman;  it  had  so  little  of  caprice, 
so  little  of  vanity,  so  utter  an  absence  of  all  jealous  and  all 
angry  feeling ;  it  was  so  made  up  of  tenderness  and  devotion, 
and  yet  so  imaginative  and  fairy-like  in  its  fondness,  —  that 
it  was  difficult  to  bear  only  the  sentiments  of  earth  for  one 
who  had  so  little  of  earth's  clay.  She  was  more  like  the 
women  whom  one  imagines  are  the  creations  of  poetry,  and 
yet  of  whom  no  poetry,  save  that  of  Shakspeare,  reminds 
us ;  and  to  this  day,  when  I  go  into  the  world,  I  never  see 
aught  of  our  own  kind  which  recalls  her,  or  even  one  of  her 
features,  to  my  memory.  But  when  I  am  alone  with  Nature, 
methinks  a  sweet  sound  or  a  new-born  flower  has  something 
of  familiar  power  over  those  stored  and  deep  impressions 
which  do  make  her  image,  and  it  brings  her  more  vividly  be- 
fore my  eyes  than  any  shape  or  face  of  her  own  sex,  however 
beautiful  it  may  be. 

There  was  also  another  trait  in  her  character  which,  though 
arising  in  her  weakness,  not  her  virtues,  yet  perpetuated  the 
more  dreamlike  and  imaginary  qualities  of  our  passion :  this 
was  a  melancholy  superstition,  developing  itself  in  forebod- 
ings and  omens  which  interested,  because  they  were  steeped 
at  once  in  the  poetry  and  in  the  deep  sincerity  of  her  nature. 
She  was  impressed  with  a  strong  and  uncontrollable  feeling 
that  her  fate  was  predestined  to  a  dark  course  and  an  early 
end;  and  she  drew  from  all  things  around  her  something  to 
feed  the  pensive  character  of  her  thoughts.  The  stillness  of 
noon ;  the  holy  and  eloquent  repose  of  twilight,  its  rosy  sky 
and  its  soft  air,  its  shadows  and  its  dews, —  had  equally  for 


DEVEREUX.  217 

her  heart  a  whisper  and  a  spell.  The  waii  stars,  where,  from 
the  eldest  time,  man  has  shaped  out  a  chart  of  the  undiscov- 
erable  future ;  the  mysterious  moon,  to  which  the  great  ocean 
ministers  from  its  untrodden  shrines;  the  winds,  which  trav- 
erse the  vast  air,  pilgrims  from  an  eternal  home  to  an  un- 
penetrated  bourne;  the  illimitable  heavens,  on  which  none 
ever  gazed  without  a  vague  craving  for  something  that  the 
earth  cannot  give,  and  a  vague  sense  of  a  former  existence  in 
which  that  something  was  enjoyed ;  the  holy  night ;  that  sol- 
emn and  circling  sleep,  which  seems,  in  its  repose,  to  image 
our  death,  and  in  its  living  worlds  to  shadow  forth  the 
immortal  realms  which  only  through  that  death  we  can  sur- 
vey,—  all  had,  for  the  deep  heart  of  Isora,  a  language  of  omen 
and  of  doom.  Often  would  we  wander  alone,  and  for  hours 
together,  by  the  quiet  and  wild  woods  and  streams  that  sur- 
rounded her  retreat,  and  which  we  both  loved  so  well;  and 
often,  when  the  night  closed  over  us,  with  my  arm  around 
her,  and  our  lips  so  near  that  our  atmosphere  was  our  mutual 
breath,  would  she  utter,  in  that  voice  which  "  made  the  soul 
plant  itself  in  the  ears,"  the  predictions  which  had  nursed 
themselves  at  her  heart. 

I  remember  one  evening,  in  especial.  The  rich  twilight 
had  gathered  over  us,  and  we  sat  by  a  slender  and  soft  riv- 
ulet, overshadowed  by  some  stunted  yet  aged  trees.  We  had 
both,  before  she  spoke,  been  silent  for  several  minutes ;  and 
only  when,  at  rare  intervals^,  the  birds  sent  from  the  copse 
that  backed  us  a  solitary  and  vesper  note  of  music,  was  the 
stillness  around  us  broken.  Before  us,  on  the  opposite  bank 
of  the  stream,  lay  a  valley,  in  which  shadow  and  wood  con- 
cealed all  trace  of  man's  dwellings,  save  at  one  far  spot, 
where,  from  a  single  hut,  rose  a  curling  and  thin  vapour, — 
like  a  spirit  released  from  earth,  and  losing  gradually  its 
earthier  particles,  as  it  blends  itself  with  the  loftier  atmos- 
phere of  heaven. 

It  was  then  that  Isora,  clinging  closer  to  me,  whispered 
her  forebodings  of  death.  "You  will  remember,"  said  she, 
smiling  faintly,  "you  will  remember  me,  in  the  lofty  and 
bright   career  which  yet  awaits  you;    and  I  scarcely  know 


218  DEVEREUX. 

whetlier  I  would  not  sooner  have  that  memory  —  free  as  it 
will  be  from  all  recollection  of  my  failings  and  faults,  and  all 
that  I  have  cost  you,  than  incur  the  chance  of  your  future 
coldness  or  decrease  of  love." 

And  when  Isora  turned,  and  saw  that  the  tears  stood  in  my 
eyes,  she  kissed  them  away,  and  said,  after  a  pause,  — 

"  It  matters  not,  my  own  guardian  angel,  what  becomes  of 
me :  and  now  that  I  am  near  you,  it  is  wicked  to  let  my  folly 
cost  you  a  single  pang.  But  why  should  you  grieve  at  my 
forebodings?  there  is  nothing  painful  or  harsh  in  them  to 
me,  and  I  interpret  them  thus:  'If  my  life  passes  away  be- 
fore the  common  date,  perhaps  it  will  be  a  sacrifice  to  yours.' 
And  it  will,  Morton  —  it  will.  The  love  I  bear  to  you  I  can 
but  feebly  express  now;  all  of  us  wish  to  prove  our  feelings, 
and  I  would  give  one  proof  of  mine  for  you.  It  seems  to  me 
that  I  was  made  only  for  one  purpose  —  to  love  you ;  and  I 
would  fain  hope  that  my  death  may  be  some  sort  of  sacrifice 
to  you  —  some  token  of  the  ruling  passion  and  the  whole  ob- 
ject of  my  life." 

As  Isora  said  this,  the  light  of  the  moon,  which  had  just 
risen,  shone  full  upon  her  cheek,  flushed  as  it  was  with  a 
deeper  tint  than  it  usually  wore ;  and  in  her  eye  —  her  feat- 
ures —  her  forehead  —  the  lofty  nature  of  her  love  seemed  to 
have  stamped  the  divine  expression  of  itself. 

Have  I  lingered  too  long  on  these  passages  of  life  ?  They 
draw  near  to  a  close,  and  a  more  adventurous  and  stirring 
period  of  manhood  will  succeed.  Ah,  little  could  they,  who 
in  after  years  beheld  in  me  but  the  careless  yet  stern  soldier 
—  the  wily  and  callous  diplomatist  —  the  companion  alter- 
nately so  light  and  so  moodily  reserved  —  little  could  they 
tell  how  soft,  and  weak,  and  doting  my  heart  was  once ! 


DEVEREUX.  219 


CHAPTER  VT. 

AN   UNEXPECTED   MEETING.  —  CONJECTURE   AND    ANTICIPATION. 

The  day  for  the  public  solemnization  of  our  marriage  was 
at  length  appointed.  In  fact,  the  plan  for  the  future  that  ap- 
peared to  me  most  promising  was  to  proffer  my  services 
to  some  foreign  court,  and  that  of  Eussia  held  out  to  me  the 
greatest  temptation.  I  was  therefore  anxious,  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible, to  conclude  the  rite  of  a  second  or  public  nuptials,  and 
I  purposed  leaving  the  country  within  a  week  afterwards. 
My  little  lawyer  assured  me  that  my  suit  would  go  on  quite 
as  well  in  my  absence,  and  whenever  my  presence  was  neces- 
sary he  would  be  sure  to  inform  me  of  it.  I  did  not  doubt 
him  in  the  least  —  it  is  a  charming  thing  to  have  confidence 
in  one's  man  of  business. 

Of  Montreuil  I  now  saw  nothing;  but  I  accidentally  heard 
that  he  was  on  a  visit  to  Gerald,  and  that  the  latter  had  al- 
ready made  the  old  walls  ring  with  premature  hospitality. 
As  for  Aubrey,  I  was  in  perfect  ignorance  of  his  movements ; 
and  the  imsatisfactory  shortness  of  his  last  letter,  and  the 
wild  expressions  so  breathing  of  fanaticism  in  the  postscript, 
had  given  me  much  anxiety  and  alarm  on  his  account.  I 
longed  above  all  to  see  him,  to  talk  with  him  over  old  times 
and  our  future  plans,  and  to  learn  whether  no  new  bias  could 
be  given  to  a  temperament  which  seemed  to  lean  so  strongly 
towards  a  self-punishing  superstition.  It  was  about  a  week 
before  the  day  fixed  for  my  public  nuptials  that  I  received  at 
last  from  him  the  following  letter:  — 

My  dearest  Brother,  —  I  have  been  long  absent  from  home, — 
absent  on  affairs  on  which  we  will  talk  hereafter.  I  have  not  forgotten 
you,  though  I  have  been  silent,  and  the  news  of  my  poor  uncle's  death 
has  shocked  me  greatly.  On  my  arrival  here  I  learned  your  disappoint- 
ment and  your  recourse  to  law.     1  am  not  so  much  surprised,  though  I 


220  DEYEREUX. 

am  as  much  grieved  as  yourself,  for  I  will  tell  you  now  what  seemed  to 
me  unimportant  before.  On  receiving  your  letter,  requesting  consent 
to  your  designed  marriage,  my  uncle  seemed  greatly  displeased  as  well  as 
vexed,  and  afterwards  he  heard  much  that  displeased  him  more  ;  from 
what  quarter  came  his  news  I  know  not,  and  he  only  spoke  of  it  in 
innuendoes  and  angry  insinuations.  As  far  as  I  was  able  I  endeavoured 
to  learn  his  meaning,  but  could  not,  and  to  my  praises  of  you  I  thought 
latterly  he  seemed  to  lend  but  a  cold  ear  ;  he  told  me  at  last,  when  I  was 
about  to  leave  him,  that  you  had  acted  ungratefully  to  him,  and  that  he 
should  alter  his  will.  I  scarcely  thought  of  this  speech  at  the  time,  or 
rather  I  considered  it  as  the  threat  of  a  momentary  anger.  Possibly, 
however,  it  was  the  prelude  to  that  disposition  of  property  which  has  so 
wounded  you :  I  observe,  too,  that  the  will  bears  date  about  that  period. 
I  mention  this  fact  to  you ;  you  can  draw  from  it  what  inference  you 
will :  but  I  do  solemnly  believe  that  Gerald  is  innocent  of  any  fraud 
towards  yeu. 

I  am  all  anxiety  to  hear  whether  your  love  continues.  I  beseech  you 
to  write  to  me  instantly  and  inform  me  on  that  head  as  on  all  others. 

We  shall  meet  soon. 

Your  ever  affectionate  Brother, 

Aubrey  Deverecx. 

There  was  something  in  this  letter  that  vexed  and  displeased 
me :  I  thought  it  breathed  a  tone  of  unkindness  and  indiffer- 
ence, which  my  present  circumstances  rendered  peculiarly  in- 
excusable. So  far,  therefore,  from  answering  it  immediately, 
I  resolved  not  to  reply  to  it  till  after  the  solemnization  of  my 
marriage.  The  anecdote  of  my  uncle  startled  me  a  little 
when  I  coupled  it  with  the  words  my  uncle  had  used  towards 
myself  on  his  death-bed ;  namely,  in  hinting  that  he  had  heard 
some  things  unfavourable  to  Isora,  unnecessary  then  to  re- 
peat; but  still  if  my  uncle  had  altered  his  intentions  towards 
me,  would  he  not  have  mentioned  the  change  and  its  reasons? 
Would  he  have  written  to  me  with  such  kindness,  or  received 
me  with  such  affection?  I  could  not  believe  that  he  would; 
and  my  opinions  of  the  fraud  and  the  perpetrator  were  not  a 
whit  changed  by  Aubrey's  epistle.  It  was  clear,  however, 
that  he  had  joined  the  party  against  me ;  and  as  my  love  for 
him  was  exceedingly  great,  I  was  much  wounded  by  the  idea. 

"All  leave  me,"  said  I,  "upon  this  reverse, —  all  but  Isora!" 


DEVEREUX.  221 

and  I  thought  with  renewed  satisfaction  on  the  step  which 
was  about  to  insure  to  her  a  secure  home  and  an  honourable 
station.  My  fears  lest  Isora  should  again  be  molested  by  her 
persecutor  were  now  pretty  well  at  rest;  having  no  doubt  in 
my  own  mind  as  to  that  persecutor's  identity,  I  imagined 
that  in  his  new  acquisition  of  wealth  and  pomp,  a  boyish  and 
unreturued  love  would  easily  be  relinquished;  and  that,  per- 
haps, he  would  scarcely  regret  my  obtaining  the  prize  himself 
had  sought  for,  when  in  my  altered  fortunes  it  would  be  fol- 
lowed by  such  worldly  depreciation.  In  short,  I  looked  upon 
him  as  possessing  a  characteristic  common  to  most  bad  men, 
who  are  never  so  influenced  by  love  as  they  are  by  hatred; 
and  imagined,  therefore,  that  if  he  had  lost  the  object  of  the 
love,  he  could  console  himself  by  exulting  over  any  decline  of 
prosperity  in  the  object  of  the  hate. 

As  the  appointed  day  drew  near,  Isora's  despondency  seemed 
to  vanish,  and  she  listened,  with  her  usual  eagerness  in  what- 
ever interested  me,  to  my  Continental  schemes  of  enterprise. 
I  resolved  that  our  second  wedding,  though  public,  should  be 
modest  and  unostentatious,  suitable  rather  to  our  fortunes 
than  our  birth.  St.  John,  and  a  few  old  friends  of  the  fam- 
ily, constituted  all  the  party  I  invited,  and  I  requested  them 
to  keep  my  marriage  secret  until  the  very  day  for  celebrating 
it  arrived.  I  did  this  from  a  desire  of  avoiding  compliments 
intended  as  sarcasms,  and  visits  rather  of  curiosity  than 
friendship.  On  flew  the  days,  and  it  was  now  the  one  pre- 
ceding my  wedding.  I  was  dressing  to  go  out  upon  a  matter 
of  business  connected  with  the  ceremony,  and  I  then,  as  I 
received  my  hat  from  Desmarais,  for  the  first  time  thought  it 
requisite  to  acquaint  that  accomplished  gentleman  with  the 
rite  of  the  morrow.  Too  well  bred  was  Monsieur  Desmarais 
to  testify  any  other  sentiment  than  pleasure  at  the  news ;  and 
he  received  my  orders  and  directions  for  the  next  day  with 
more  than  the  graceful  urbanity  which  made  one  always  feel 
quite  honoured  by  his  attentions. 

" And  how  goes  on  the  philosophy?"  said  I:  "faith,  since 
I  am  about  to  be  married,  I  shall  be  likely  to  require  its 
consolations." 


222  DEVEREUX. 

"Indeed,  Monsieur,"  answered  Desmarais,  with  that  ex- 
pression of  self-conceit  which  was  so  curiously  interwoven 
with  the  obsequiousness  of  his  address,  "  indeed,  Monsieur,  I 
have  been  so  occupied  of  late  in  preparing  a  little  powder 
very  essential  to  dress,  that  I  have  not  had  time  for  any 
graver,  though  not  perhaps  more  important,  avocations." 

"Powder  —  and  what  is  it?" 

"Will  Monsieur  condescend  to  notice  its  effect?"  answered 
Desmarais,  producing  a  pair  of  gloves  which  were  tinted  of 
the  most  delicate  flesh-colour;  the  colouring  was  so  nice,  that 
when  the  gloves  were  on,  it  would  have  been  scarcely  possi- 
ble, at  any  distance,  to  distinguish  them  from  the  naked  flesh. 

"'Tis  a  rare  invention,"  said  I. 

"Monsieur  is  very  good,  but  I  flatter  myself  it  is  so,"  re- 
joined Desmarais ;  and  he  forthwith  ran  on  far  more  earnestly 
on  the  merits  of  his  powder  than  I  had  ever  heard  him  des- 
cant on  the  beauties  of  Fatalism.  I  cut  him  short  in  the 
midst  of  his  harangue:  too  much  eloquence  in  any  line  is 
displeasing  in  one's  dependant. 

I  had  just  concluded  my  business  abroad,  and  was  returning 
homeward  with  downcast  eyes  and  in  a  very  abstracted  mood, 
when  I  was  suddenly  startled  by  a  loud  voice  that  exclaimed 
in  a  tone  of  surprise:  "What!  —  Count  Devereux, —  how 
fortunate ! " 

I  looked  up,  and  saw  a  little  dark  man,  shabbily  dressed; 
his  face  did  not  seem  unfamiliar  to  me,  but  I  could  not  at 
first  remember  where  I  had  seen  it :  my  look,  I  suppose,  tes- 
tified my  want  of  memory,  for  he  said,  with  a  low  bow, — 

"You  have  forgotten  me.  Count,  and  I  don't  wonder  at  it; 
so  please  you,  I  am  the  person  who  once  brought  you  a  letter 
from  France  to  Devereux  Court." 

At  this,  I  recognized  the  bearer  of  that  epistle  which  had 
embroiled  me  with  the  Abbe  Montreuil.  I  was  too  glad  of 
the  meeting  to  show  any  coolness  in  my  reception  of  the  gen- 
tleman, and  to  speak  candidly,  I  never  saw  a  gentleman  less 
troubled  with  mauvalse  honte. 

"Sir!"  said  he,  lowering  his  voice  to  a  whisper,  "it  is 
most  fortunate  that  I  should  thus  have  met  you;  I  only  came 


DEVEREUX.  223 

to  town  tliis  morning,  and  for  the  sole  purpose  of  seeking 
you  out.  I  am  charged  with  a  packet,  which  I  believe  will 
be  of  the  greatest  importance  to  your  interests.  But,"  he 
added,  looking  round,  "the  streets  are  no  proper  place  for 
my  communication ;  parhleu,  there  are  those  about  who  hear 
whispers  through  stone  walls:  suffer  me  to  call  upon  you 
to-morrow." 

"To-morrow!  it  is  a  day  of  great  business  with  me,  but  I 
can  possibly  spare  you  a  few  moments,  if  that  will  suffice; 
or,  on  the  day  after,  your  own  pleasure  may  be  the  sole  limit 
of  our  interview." 

'^Farbleu,  Monsieur,  you  are  very  obliging, —  very;  but  I 
will  tell  you  in  one  word  who  I  am  and  what  is  my  business. 
My  name  is  Marie  Oswald :  I  was  born  in  France,  and  I  am 
the  half-brother  of  that  Oswald  who  drew  up  your  uncle's 
will."  ■ 

"Good  Heavens!"  I  exclaimed;  "is  it  possible  that  you 
know  anything  of  that  affair?" 

"Hush  —  yes,  all!  my  poor  brother  is  just  dead;  and,  in  a 
word,  I  am  charged  with  a  packet  given  me  by  him  on  his 
death-bed.     Now,  will  you  see  me  if  I  bring  it  to-morrow?" 

"Certainly;  can  I  not  see  you  to-night?" 

"To-night?  —  No,  not  well;  parhleu!  I  want  a  little  con- 
sideration as  to  the  reward  due  to  me  for  my  eminent  services 
to  your  lordship.     No:  let  it  be  to-morrow." 

"Well!  at  what  hour?    I  fear  it  must  be  in  the  evening." 

"Seven,  s^il  vous plait,  Monsieur." 

"Enough!  be  it  so." 

And  Mr.  Marie  Oswald,  who  seemed,  during  the  whole  of 
this  short  conference,  to  have  been  under  some  great  appre- 
hension of  being  seen  or  overheard,  bowed,  and  vanished  in 
an  instant,  leaving  my  mind  in  a  most  motley  state  of  inco- 
herent, unsatisfactory,  yet  sanguine  conjecture. 


224  DEVEREUX. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

THE   EVENTS   OF  A  SINGLE  NIGHT.  —  MOMENTS  MAKE  THE  HUES 
IN   WHICH   YEARS   ARE   COLOURED. 

Men  of  the  old  age !  what  wonder  that  in  the  fondness  of  a 
dim  faith,  and  in  tlie  vague  guesses  which,  from  the  frail  ark 
of  reason,  we  send  to  hover  over  a  dark  and  unfathomable 
abyss, —  what  wonder  that  ye  should  have  wasted  hope  and 
life  in  striving  to  penetrate  the  future !  What  wonder  that 
ye  should  have  given  a  language  to  the  stars,  and  to  the 
night  a  spell,  and  gleaned  from  the  uncomprehended  earth 
an  answer  to  the  enigmas  of  Fate !  We  are  like  the  sleepers 
who,  walking  under  the  influence  of  a  dream,  wander  by  the 
verge  of  a  precipice,  while,  in  their  own  deluded  vision,  they 
perchance  believe  themselves  surrounded  by  bowers  of  roses, 
and  accompanied  by  those  they  love.  Or,  rather  like  the 
blind  man,  who  can  retrace  every  step  of  the  path  he  has  once 
trodden,  but  who  can  guess  not  a  single  inch  of  that  which 
he  has  not  yet  travelled,  our  Reason  can  re-guide  us  over  the 
roads  of  past  experience  with  a  sure  and  unerring  wisdom, 
even  while  it  recoils,  baffled  and  bewildered,  before  the  black- 
ness of  the  very  moment  whose  boundaries  we  are  about  to 
enter. 

The  few  friends  I  had  invited  to  my  wedding  were  still 
with  me,  when  one  of  my  servants,  not  Desmarais,  informed 
me  that  Mr.  Oswald  waited  for  me.     I  went  out  to  him. 

"  Parhleu  !  "  said  he,  rubbing  his  hands,  "  I  perceive  it  is  a 
joyous  time  with  you,  and  I  don't  ^vender  you  can  only  spare 
me  a  few  moments." 

The  estates  of  Devereux  were  not  to  be  risked  for  a  trifle, 
but  I  thought  Mr.  Marie  Oswald  exceedingly  impertinent. 
"Sir,"  said  I,  very  gravely,  "pray  be  seated;  and  now  to 
business.     In  the  first  place  may  I  ask  to  whom  I  am  be- 


DEVEREUX.  225 

holden  for  sending  you  with  that  letter  you  gave  me  at  Dev- 
ereux  Court?  and,  secondly,  what  that  letter  contained?  for 
I  never  read  it." 

"  Sir, "  answered  the  man,  "  the  history  of  the  letter  is  per- 
fectly distinct  from  that  of  the  will,  and  the  former  (to  dis- 
cuss the  least  important  first)  is  briefly  this.  You  have 
heard,  sir,  of  the  quarrels  between  Jesuit  and  Jansenist?" 

"I  have." 

"Well  —  but  first,  Count,  let  me  speak  of  m3-self.  There 
were  three  young  men  of  the  same  age,  born  in  the  same  vil- 
lage in  France,  of  obscure  birth  each,  and  each  desirous  of 
getting  on  in  the  world.  Two  were  deuced  clever  fellows, 
the  third,  nothing  particular.  One  of  the  two  at  present  shall 
be  nameless ;  the  third,  '  who  was  nothing  particular '  (in  his 
own  opinion,  at  least,  though  his  friends  may  think  differ- 
ently), was  Marie  Oswald.  We  soon  separated:  I  went  to 
Paris,  was  employed  in  different  occupations,  and  at  last  be- 
came secretary,  and  (why  should  I  disavow  it?)  valet  to  a 
lady  of  quality  and  a  violent  politician.  She  was  a  furious 
Jansenist;  of  course  I  adopted  her  opinions.  About  this 
time,  there  was  much  talk  among  the  Jesuits  of  the  great 
genius  and  deep  learning  of  a  young  member  of  the  order, — 
Julian  Montreuil.  Though  not  residing  in  the  country,  he 
had  sent  one  or  two  books  to  France,  which  had  been  pub- 
lished and  had  created  a  great  sensation.  Well,  Sir,  my  mis- 
tress was  the  greatest  intriguante  of  her  party :  she  was  very 
rich,  and  tolerably  liberal;  and,  among  other  packets  of 
which  a  messenger  from  England  was  carefully  robbed,  be- 
tween Calais  and  Abbeville  (you  understand  me,  sir,  carefully 
robbed,  parUexi !  I  wish  I  were  robbed  in  the  same  manner 
every  day  in  my  life!),  was  one  from  the  said  Julian  Mon- 
treuil to  a  political  friend  of  his.  Among  other  letters  in  this 
packet  —  all  of  importance  —  was  one  descriptive  of  the  Eng- 
lish family  with  whom  he  resided.  It  hit  them  all,  I  am 
told,  off  to  a  hair;  and  it  described,  in  particular,  one,  the 
supposed  inheritor  of  the  estates,  a  certain  Morton,  Count 
Devereux.  Since  you  say  you  did  not  read  the  letter,  I  spare 
your  blushes.  Sir,   and  I  don't  dwell  upon   what  he  said  of 

15 


226  DEVEREUX. 

your  talent,  energy,  ambition,  etc.  I  will  only  tell  you  that 
lie  dilated  far  more  upon  your  prospects  than  your  powers ; 
and  that  he  expressly  stated  what  was  his  object  in  staying 
in  your  family  and  cultivating  your  friendship, — he  expressly 
stated  that  30,000^.  a  year  would  be  particularly  serviceable 
to  a  certain  political  cause  which  he  had  strongly  at  heart." 

"I  understand  you,"  said  I,  "the  Chevalier's?" 

"Exactly.  'This  sponge,'  said  Montreuil,  I  remember 
the  very  phrase, —  'this  sponge  will  be  well  filled,  and  I  am 
handling  it  softly  now  in  order  to  squeeze  its  juices  hereafter 
according  to  the  uses  of  the  party  we  have  so  strongly  at 
heart. ' " 

"  It  was  not  a  metaphor  very  flattering  to  my  understand- 
ing," said  I. 

"  True,  Sir.  Well,  as  soon  as  my  mistress  learned  this  she 
remembered  that  your  father,  the  Marshal,  had  been  one  of 
her  i^lus  chers  amis;  in  a  word,  if  scandal  says  true,  he  had 
been  the  cher  ami.  However,  she  was  instantly  resolved  to 
open  your  eyes,  and  rviin  the  maudlt  Jesn'ite:  she  enclosed 
the  letter  in  an  envelope  and  sent  me  to  England  with  it.  I 
came,  I  gave  it  you,  and  I  discovered,  in  that  moment,  Avhen 
the  Abbe  entered,  that  this  Julian  Montreuil  was  an  old  ac- 
quaintance of  my  own,  —  was  one  of  the  two  young  men  who 
I  told  you  were  such  deuced  clever  fellows.  Like  many  other 
adventurers,  he  had  changed  his  name  on  entering  the  world 
and  I  had  never  till  now  suspected  that  Julian  Montreuil 
was  Bertrand  Collinot.  Well,  when  I  saw  what  I  had  done, 
I  was  exceedingly  sorry,  for  I  had  liked  my  companion  well 
enough  not  to  wish  to  hurt  him;  besides,  I  was  a  little  afraid 
of  him.  I  took  horse,  and  went  about  some  other  business  I 
had  to  execute,  nor  did  I  visit  that  part  of  the  country  again, 
till  a  week  ago  (now  I  come  to  the  other  business),  when  I 
was  summoned  to  the  death-bed  of  my  half-brother  the  attor- 
ney, peace  be  with  him !  He  suffered  much  from  hypooliou- 
dria  in  his  dying  moments, —  I  believe  it  is  the  way  with 
people  of  his  profession, —  and  he  gave  me  a  sealed  packet, 
with  a  last  injunction  to  place  it  in  your  hands  and  your 
hands  only.    Scarce  was  he  dead  —  (do  not  think  I  am  unfeel- 


DEVEREUX.  227 

ing,  Sir,  I  had  seen  very  little  of  him,  and  he  was  only  my 
half-brother,  my  father  having  married,  for  a  second  wife,  a 
foreign  lady  who  kept  an  inn,  by  whom  he  was  blessed  with 
myself)  —  scarce,  I  say,  was  he  dead  when  I  hurried  up  to 
town.  Providence  threw  you  in  my  way,  and  you  shall  have 
the  document  upon  two  conditions." 

"  Which  are,  first  to  reward  you ;  secondly,  to  —  " 

"To  promise  you  will  not  open  the  packet  for  seven  days." 

"The  devil!  and  why?" 

"  I  will  tell  you  candidly :  one  of  the  papers  in  the  packet 
I  believe  to  be  my  brother's  written  confession, —  nay,  I  know 
it  is, —  and  it  will  criminate  one  I  have  a  love  for,  and  who, 
I  am  resolved,  shall  have  a  chance  of  escape." 

"Who  is  that  one?      Montreuil?" 

"No:  I  do  not  refer  to  him;  but  I  cannot  tell  you  more.  I 
require  the  promise.  Count:  it  is  indispensable.  If  you 
don't  give  it  me,  ixirhleit,  you  shall  not  have  the  packet." 

There  was  something  so  cool,  so  confident,  and  so  impudent 
about  this  man,  that  I  did  not  well  know  whether  to  give  way 
to  laughter  or  to  indignation.  Neither,  however,  would  have 
been  politic  in  my  situation;  and,  as  I  said  before,  the  estates 
of  Devereux  were  not  to  be  risked  for  a  trifle. 

"Pray,"  said  I,  however,  with  a  shrewdness  which  I  think 
did  me  credit, —  "pray,  Mr.  Marie  Oswald,  do  you  expect  the 
reward  before  the  packet  is  opened?  " 

"  By  no  means, "  answered  the  gentleman  who  in  his  own 
opinion  was  nothing  particular;  "by  no  means;  nor  until  you 
and  your  lawyers  are  satisfied  that  the  papers  enclosed  in  the 
packet  are  sufficient  fully  to  restore  you  to  the  Jieritage  of 
Devereux  Court  and  its  demesnes." 

There  was  something  fair  in  this ;  and  as  the  only  penalty 
to  me  incurred  by  the  stipulated  condition  seemed  to  be  the 
granting  escape  to  the  criminals,  I  did  not  think  it  incumbent 
upon  me  to  lose  my  cause  from  the  desire  of  a  prosecution. 
Besides,  at  that  time,  I  felt  too  happy  to  be  revengeful ;  and 
so,  after  a  moment's  consideration,  I  conceded  to  the  proposal, 
and  gave  my  honour  as  a  gentleman  —  IMr.  Oswald  obligingly 
dispensed  with  an  oath  —  that  I  would  not  open  the  packet 


228  DEVEREUX. 

till  the  end  of  the  seventh  day.  Mr.  OsTvald  then  drew  forth 
a  piece  of  paper,  on  which  sundry  characters  were  inscribed, 
the  purport  of  which  was  that,  if,  through  the  papers  given 
me  by  Marie  Oswald,  my  lawyers  were  convinced  that  I  could 
become  master  of  my  uncle's  property,  now  enjoyed  by  Ger- 
ald Devereux,  I  should  bestow  on  the  said  Marie  5000/. :  half 
on  obtaining  this  legal  opinion,  half  on  obtaining  possession 
of  the  property.  I  could  not  resist  a  smile  M-hen  I  observed 
that  the  word  of  a  gentleman  was  enough  surety  for  the 
safety  of  the  man  he  had  a  love  for,  but  that  Mr.  Oswald  re- 
quired a  written  bond  for  the  safety  of  his  reward.  One  is 
ready  enough  to  trust  one's  friends  to  the  conscience  of  an- 
other, but  as  long  as  a  law  can  be  had  instead,  one  is  rarely 
so  credulous  in  respect  to  one's  money. 

"The  reward  shall  be  doubled  if  I  succeed,"  said  I,  signing 
the  paper;  and  Oswald  then  produced  a  packet,  on  which  was 
writ,  in  a  trembling  hand, —  "For  Count  Morton  Devereux, 
—  private, —  and  with  haste."  As  soon  as  he  had  given  me 
this  precious  charge,  and  reminded  me  again  of  mj  promise, 
Oswald  withdrew.  I  placed  the  packet  in  my  bosom,  and 
returned  to  my  guests. 

Never  had  my  spirit  been  so  light  as  it  was  that  evening. 
Indeed  the  good  people  I  had  assembled  thought  matrimony 
never  made  a  man  so  little  serious  before.  They  did  not  how- 
ever stay  long,  and  the  moment  they  were  gone  I  hastened  to 
my  own  sleeping  apartment  to  secure  the  treasure  I  had  ac- 
quired. A  small  escritoire  stood  in  this  room,  and  in  it  I  was 
accustomed  to  keep  whatever  I  considered  most  precious. 
With  many  a  wistful  look  and  murmur  at  my  promise,  I  con- 
signed the  packet  to  one  of  the  drawers  of  this  escritoire.  As  I 
was  locking  the  drawer,  the  sweet  voice  of  Desmarais  accosted 
me.  Would  Monsieur,  he  asked,  suffer  him  to  visit  a  friend 
that  evening,  in  order  to  celebrate  so  joyful  an  event  in  Mon- 
sieur's destiny?  It  was  not  often  that  he  was  addicted  to 
vulgar  merriment,  but  on  such  an  occasion  he  owned  that  he 
was  tempted  to  transgress  his  customary  habits,  and  he  felt 
that  Monsieur,  with  his  usual  good  taste,  would  feel  offended 
if  his  servant,  within  Monsieur's  own  house,  suffered  joy  to 


DEVEREUX.  229 

pass  the  limits  of  discretion,  and  enter  the  confines  of  noise 
and  inebriety,  especially  as  Monsieur  had  so  positively  inter- 
dicted all  outward  sign  of  extra  hilarity.  He  implored  mille 
pardons  for  the  presumption  of  his  request. 

"It  is  made  with  your  usual  discretion;  there  are  five 
guineas  for  you :  go  and  get  drunk  with  your  friend,  and  be 
merry  instead  of  wise.  But,  tell  me,  is  it  not  beneath  a  phi- 
losopher to  be  moved  by  anything,  especially  anything  that 
occurs  to  another, — much  less  to  get  drunk  upon  it?" 

"Pardon  me,  Monsieur,"  answered  Desmarais,  bowing  to 
the  ground :  "  one  ought  to  get  drunk  sometimes,  because  the 
next  morning  one  is  sure  to  be  thoughtful;  and,  moreover, 
the  practical  philosopher  ought  to  indulge  every  emotion,  in 
order  to  judge  how  that  emotion  would  affect  another;  at 
least,  this  is  my  opinion." 

"Well,  go." 

"My  most  grateful  thanks  be  with  Monsieur;  Monsieur's 
nightly  toilet  is  entirely  prepared." 

And  away  went  Desmarais,  with  the  light,  yet  slow,  step 
with  which  he  was  accustomed  to  combine  elegance  with 
dignity. 

I  now  passed  into  the  room  I  had  prepared  for  Isora's 
boudoir.  I  found  her  leaning  by  the  window,  and  I  perceived 
that  she  had  been  in  tears.  As  I  paused  to  contemplate  her 
figure  so  touchingly,  yet  so  unconsciously  mournful  in  its 
beautiful  and  still  posture,  a  more  joyous  sensation  than  was 
wont  to  mingle  with  my  tenderness  for  her  swelled  at  my 
heart.  "Yes,"  thought  I,  "you  are  no  longer  the  solitary 
exile,  or  the  persecuted  daughter  of  a  noble  but  ruined  race ; 
you  are  not  even  the  bride  of  a  man  who  must  seek  in  foreign 
climes,  through  danger  and  through  hardship,  to  repair  a 
broken  fortune  and  establish  an  adventurer's  name!  At  last 
the  clouds  have  rolled  from  the  bright  star  of  your  fate: 
wealth,  and  pomp,  and  all  that  awaits  the  haughtiest  of  Eng- 
land's matrons  shall  be  yours."  And  at  these  thoughts  For- 
tune seemed  to  me  a  gift  a  thousand  times  more  precious  than 
—  much  as  my  luxuries  prized  it  —  it  had  ever  seemed  to  me 
before. 


230  DEVEEEUX. 

I  drew  near  and  laid  my  hand  upon  Isora's  shoulder,  and 
kissed  her  cheek.  She  did  not  turn  round,  but  strove,  by 
bending  over  my  hand  and  pressing  it  to  her  lips,  to  conceal 
that  she  had  been  weeping.  I  thought  it  kinder  to  favour 
the  artifice  than  to  complain  of  it.  I  remained  silent  for 
some  moments,  and  I  then  gave  vent  to  the  sanguine  expecta- 
tions for  the  future  which  my  new  treasure  entitled  me  to 
form.  I  had  already  narrated  to  her  the  adventure  of  the 
day  before :  I  now  repeated  the  purport  of  my  last  interview 
with  Oswald;  and,  growing  more  and  more  elated  as  I  pro- 
ceeded, I  dwelt  at  last  upon  the  description  of  my  inheri- 
tance, as  glowingly  as  if  I  had  already  recovered  it.  I 
painted  to  her  imagination  its  rich  woods  and  its  glassy  lake, 
and  the  fitful  and  wandering  brook  that,  through  brake  and 
shade,  went  bounding  on  its  wild  Avay;  I  told  her  of  my  early 
roamings,  and  dilated  with  a  boy's  rapture  upon  my  favourite 
haunts.  I  brought  visibly  before  her  glistening  and  eager 
eyes  the  thick  copse  where  hour  after  hour,  in  vague  verses 
and  still  vaguer  dreams,  I  had  so  often  whiled  away  the  day ; 
the  old  tree  which  I  had  climbed  to  watch  the  birds  in  their 
glad  mirth,  or  to  listen  unseen  to  the  melancholy  sound  of  the 
forest  deer;  the  antique  gallery  and  the  vast  hall  which,  by 
the  dim  twilights,  I  had  paced  with  a  religious  awe,  and 
looked  upon  the  pictured  forms  of  my  bold  fathers,  and  mused 
high  and  ardently  upon  my  destiny  to  be ;  the  old  gray  tower 
which  I  had  consecrated  to  myself,  and  the  unwitnessed  path 
which  led  to  the  yellow  beach,  and  the  wide  gladness  of  the 
solitary  sea;  the  little  arbour  which  my  earliest  ambition  had 
reared,  that  looked  out  upon  the  joyous  flowers  and  the  merry 
fountain,  and,  through  the  ivy  and  the  jessamine,  wooed  the 
voice  of  the  bird,  and  the  murmur  of  the  summer  bee ;  and, 
when  I  had  exhausted  my  description,  I  turned  to  Isora,  and 
said  in  a  lower  tone,  "And  I  shall  visit  these  once  more,  and 
with  you ! " 

Isora  sighed  faintly,  and  it  was  not  till  I  had  pressed  her 
to  speak  that  she  said :  — 

"I  wish  I  could  deceive  myself,  Morton,  but  I  cannot  — 
I  cannot  root  from  my  heart  an  impression  that  I  shall  never 


DEVEREUX.  231 

again  quit  this  dull  city  with  its  gloomy  walls  and  its  heavy 
air.  A  voice  within  me  seems  to  say,  'Behold  from  this  very 
window  the  boundaries  of  your  living  wanderings ! '  " 

Isora's  words  froze  all  my  previous  exaltation.  *'  It  is  in 
vain,"  said  I,  after  chiding  her  for  her  despondency,  "it  is  in 
vain  to  tell  me  that  you  have  for  this  gloomy  notion  no  other 
reason  than  that  of  a  vague  presentiment.  It  is  time  now 
that  I  should  press  you  to  a  greater  confidence  upon  all  points 
consistent  Avith  your  oath  to  our  mutual  enemy  than  you  have 
hitherto  given  me.  Speak,  dearest,  have  you  not  some  yet 
unrevealed  causes  for  alarm?" 

It  was  but  for  a  moment  that  Isora  hesitated  before  she  an- 
swered with  that  quick  tone  which  indicates  that  we  force 
words  against  the  will. 

"  Yes,  Morton,  I  will  tell  you  now,  though  I  would  not  be- 
fore the  event  of  this  day.  On  the  last  day  that  I  saw  that 
fearful  man,  he  said,  'I  warn  you,  Isora  d' Alvarez,  that  my 
love  is  far  fiercer  than  hatred;  I  warn  you  that  your  bridals 
with  Morton  Devereux  shall  be  stained  with  blood.  Become 
his  wife,  and  you  perish!  Yea,  though  I  suffer  hell's  tortures 
forever  and  forever  from  that  hour,  my  own  hand  shall 
strike  you  to  the  heart!  '  Morton,  these  words  have  thrilled 
through  me  again  and  again,  as  if  again  they  were  breathed  in 
my  very  ear ;  and  I  have  often  started  at  night  and  thought 
the  very  knife  glittered  at  my  breast.  So  long  as  our  wedding 
was  concealed,  and  concealed  so  closely,  I  was  enabled  to 
quiet  my  fears  till  they  scarcely  seemed  to  exist.  But  when 
our  nuptials  were  to  be  made  public,  when  I  knew  that  they 
were  to  reach  the  ears  of  that  fierce  and  unaccountable  being, 
I  thought  I  heard  my  doom  pronounced.  This,  mine  own 
love,  must  excuse  your  Isora,  if  she  seemed  ungrateful  for 
your  generous  eagerness  to  announce  our  union.  And  per- 
haps she  would  not  have  acceded  to  it  so  easily  as  she  has 
done  were  it  not  that,  in  the  first  place,  she  felt  it  was  be- 
neath your  wife  to  suffer  any  terror  so  purely  selfish  to  make 
her  shrink  from  the  proud  happiness  of  being  yours  in  the 
light  of  day;  and  if  she  had  not  felt  [here  Isora  hid  her 
blushing  face  in  my  bosom]  that  she  was  fated  to  give  birth 


232  DEVEREUX. 

to  another,  and  that  the  announcement  of  our  wedded  love 
had  become  necessary  to  your  honour  as  to  mine ! " 

Though  I  was  in  reality  awed  even  to  terror  by  learning 
from  Isora's  lip  so  just  a  cause  for  her  forebodings, — though 
I  shuddered  with  a  horror  surpassing  even  my  wrath,  when  I 
heard  a  threat  so  breathing  of  deadly  and  determined  pas- 
sions,—  yet  I  concealed  my  emotions,  and  only  thought  of 
cheering  and  comforting  Isora.  I  represented  to  her  how 
guarded  and  vigilant  should  ever  henceforth  be  the  protection 
of  her  husband ;  that  nothing  should  again  separate  him  from 
her  side;  that  the  extreme  malice  and  fierce  persecution  of 
this  man  were  sufficient  even  to  absolve  her  conscience  from 
the  oath  of  concealment  she  had  taken;  that  I  would  procure 
from  the  sacred  head  of  our  Church  her  own  absolution  from 
that  vow;  that  the  moment  concealment  was  over,  I  could 
take  steps  to  prevent  the  execution  of  my  rival's  threats; 
that,  however  near  to  me  he  might  be  in  blood,  no  conse- 
quences arising  from  a  dispute  between  us  could  be  so  dread- 
ful as  the  least  evil  to  Isora;  and  moreover,  to  appease  her 
fears,  that  I  would  solemnly  promise  he  should  never  sustain 
personal  assault  or  harm  from  my  hand;  in  short,  I  said  all 
that  my  anxiety  could  dictate,  and  at  last  I  succeeded  in  quiet- 
ing her  fears,  and  she  smiled  as  brightly  as  the  first  time  I 
had  seen  her  in  the  little  cottage  of  her  father.  She  seemed, 
however,  averse  to  an  absolution  from  her  oath,  for  she  was 
especially  scrupulous  as  to  the  sanctity  of  those  religious  ob- 
ligations; but  I  secretly  resolved  that  her  safety  absolutely 
required  it,  and  that  at  all  events  I  would  procure  absolution 
from  my  own  promise  to  her. 

At  last  Isora,  turning  from  that  topic,  so  darkly  interest- 
ing, pointed  to  the  heavens,  which,  with  their  thousand  eyes 
of  light,  looked  down  upon  us.  "Tell  me,  love,"  said  she, 
playfully,  as  her  arm  embraced  me  yet  more  closely,  "if, 
among  yonder  stars  we  could  choose  a  home,  which  should  we 
select?  " 

I  pointed  to  one  which  lay  to  the  left  of  the  moon,  and 
which,  though  not  larger,  seemed  to  burn  with  an  iutenser 
lustre  than  the  rest.     Since  that  night  it  has  ever  been  to  me 


DEVEREUX.  233 

a  fountain  of  deep  and  passionate  thought,  a  well  wherein 
fears  and  hopes  are  buried,  a  mirror  in  which,  in  stormy 
times,  I  have  fancied  to  read  my  destiny,  and  to  find  some 
mysterious  omen  of  my  intended  deeds,  a  haven  which  I  be- 
lieve others  have  reached  before  me,  and  a  home  immortal  and 
unchanging,  where,  when  my  wearied  and  fettered  soul  is 
escaped,  as  a  bird,  it  shall  flee  away,  and  have  its  rest  at 
last. 

"What  think  you  of  my  choice?"  said  I.  Isora  looked  up- 
ward, but  did  not  answer;  and  as  I  gazed  upon  her  (while 
the  pale  light  of  heaven  streamed  quietly  upon  her  face)  with 
her  dark  eyes,  where  the  tear  yet  lingered,  though  rather  to 
soften  than  to  dim;  with  her  noble,  yet  tender  features,  over 
which  hung  a  melancholy  calm ;  with  her  lips  apart,  and  her 
rich  locks  wreathing  over  her  marble  brow,  and  contrasted  by 
a  single  white  rose  (that  rose  I  have  now  —  I  would  not  lose 
one  withered  leaf  of  it  for  a  kingdom!),  —  her  beauty  never 
seemed  to  me  of  so  rare  an  order,  nor  did  my  soul  ever  yearn 
towards  her  with  so  deep  a  love. 

It  was  past  midnight.  All  was  hushed  in  our  bridal  cham- 
ber. The  single  lamp,  which  hung  above,  burned  still  and 
clear;  and  through  the  half-closed  curtains  of  the  window,  the 
moonlight  looked  in  upon  our  couch,  quiet  and  pure  and  holy, 
as  if  it  were  charged  with  blessings. 

"  Hush !  "  said  Isora,  gently ;  "  do  you  not  hear  a  noise 
below?  " 

"Not  a  breath,"  said  I;  "I  hear  not  a  breath,  save  yours." 

"It  was  my  fancy,  then!"  said  Isora,  "and  it  has  ceased 
now ;  "  and  she  clung  closer  to  my  breast  and  fell  asleep.  I 
looked  on  her  peaceful  and  childish  countenance,  with  that 
concentrated  and  full  delight  with  which  we  clasp  all  that 
the  universe  holds  dear  to  us,  and  feel  as  if  the  universe  held 
nought  beside,  —  and  thus  sleep  also  crept  upon  me. 

I  awoke  suddenly;  I  felt  Isora  trembling  palpably  by  my 
side.  Before  I  could  speak  to  her,  I  saw  standing  at  a  little 
distance  from  the  bed,  a  man  wrapped  in  a  long  dark  cloak 
and  masked;  but  his  eyes  shone  through  the  mask,  and  they 
glared  full  upon  me.      He  stood  with  his  arms  folded,  and 


234  DEVEREUX. 

perfectly  motionless ;  but  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  before 
the  escritoire  in  which  I  had  locked  the  important  packet, 
stood  another  man,  also  masked,  and  wrapped  in  a  disguising 
cloak  of  similar  hue  and  fashion.  This  man,  as  if  alarmed, 
turned  suddenly,  and  I  perceived  then  that  the  escritoire  was 
already  opened,  and  that  the  packet  was  in  his  hand,  I  tore 
myself  from  Isora's  clasp  —  I  stretched  my  hand  to  the  table 
by  my  bedside,  upon  which  I  had  left  my  sword, —  it  was 
gone!  Ko  matter!  I  was  young,  strong,  fierce,  and  the 
stake  at  hazard  was  great.  I  sprang  from  the  bed,  I  precip- 
itated mj'self  upon  the  man  who  held  the  packet.  With  one 
hand  I  grasped  at  the  important  document,  with  the  other  I 
strove  to  tear  the  mask  from  the  robber's  face.  He  endeav- 
oured rather  to  shake  me  off  than  to  attack  me ;  and  it  was  not 
till  I  had  nearly  succeeded  in  unmasking  him  that  he  drew 
forth  a  short  poniard,  and  stabbed  me  in  the  side.  The  blow, 
which  seemed  purposely  aimed  to  save  a  mortal  part,  stag- 
gered me,  but  only  for  an  instant.  I  renewed  my  grij)  at  the 
packet  —  I  tore  it  from  the  robber's  hand,  and  collecting  my 
strength,  now  fast  ebbing  away,  for  one  effort,  I  bore  my 
assailant  to  the  ground,  and  fell  struggling  with  him. 

But  my  blood  flowed  fast  from  my  wound,  and  my  antag- 
onist, if  less  sinewy  than  myself,  had  greatly  the  advantage 
in  weight  and  size.  Now  for  one  moment  I  was  uppermost, 
but  in  the  next  his  knee  was  upon  my  chest,  and  his  blade 
gleamed  on  high  in  the  pale  light  of  the  lamp  and  moon.  I 
thought  I  beheld  my  death :  would  to  God  that  I  had !  With 
a  piercing  cry,  Isora  sprang  from  the  bed,  flung  herself  before 
the  lifted  blade  of  the  robber,  and  arrested  his  arm.  This 
man  had,  in  the  whole  contest,  acted  with  a  singular  forbear- 
ance, he  did  so  now:  he  paused  for  a  moment  and  dropped 
his  hand.  Plitherto  the  other  man  had  not  stirred  from  his 
mute  position;  he  now  moved  one  step  towards  us,  brandish- 
ing a  poniard  like  his  comrade's.  Isora  raised  her  hand  sup- 
plicatingly  towards  him,  and  cried  out,  "Spare  him,  spare 
him  !  Oh,  mercy,  mercy ! "  With  one  stride  the  murderer 
was  by  my  side;  he  muttered  some  words  which  passion 
seemed   to  render  inarticulate;   and,  half  pushing  aside  his 


DEVEREUX.  235 

comrade,  his  raised  weapon  flashed  before  my  eyes,  now  dim 
and  reeling.  I  made  a  vain  effort  to  rise:  the  blade  de- 
scended; Isora,  unable  to  arrest  it,  threw  herself  before  it; 
her  blood,  her  heart's  blood  gushed  over  me ;  I  saw  and  felt 
no  more. 

"When  I  recovered  my  senses,  my  servants  were  round  me ; 
a  deep  red,  wet  stain  upon  the  sofa  on  which  I  was  laid 
brought  the  whole  scene  I  had  Avitnessed  again  before  me  — 
terrible  and  distinct.  I  sprang  to  my  feet  and  asked  for 
Isora ;  a  low  murmur  caught  my  ear :  I  turned  and  beheld  a 
dark  form  stretched  on  the  bed,  and  surrounded,  like  myself, 
by  gazers  and  menials;  I  tottered  towards  that  bed, —  my 
bridal  bed, — with  a  fierce  gesture  motioned  the  crowd  away; 
I  heard  my  name  breathed  audibly ;  the  next  moment  I  was 
by  Isora's  side.  All  pain,  all  weakness,  all  consciousness  of 
my  wound,  of  my  very  self,  were  gone :  life  seemed  curdled 
into  a  single  agonizing  and  fearful  thought.  I  fixed  my  eyes 
upon  hers;  and  though  there  the  film  was  gathering  dark 
and  rapidly,  I  saw,  yet  visible  and  unconquered,  the  deep  love 
of  that  faithful  and  warm  heart  which  had  lavished  its  life 
for  mine. 

I  threw  my  arms  around  her;  I  pressed  my  lips  wildly  to 
hers.  "Speak  —  speak!"  I  cried,  and  my  blood  gushed  over 
her  with  the  effort ;  "  in  mercy  speak !  " 

Even  in  death  and  agony,  the  gentle  being  who  had  been  as 
wax  unto  my  lightest  wish  struggled  to  obey  me.  "  Do  not 
grieve  for  me, "  she  said,  in  a  tremulous  and  broken  voice : 
"  it  is  dearer  to  die  for  you  than  to  live ! " 

Those  were  her  last  words.  I  felt  her  breath  abruptly 
cease.  The  heart,  pressed  to  mine,  was  still!  I  started  up 
in  dismay ;  the  light  shone  full  upon  her  face.  0  God !  that 
I  should  live  to  write  that  Isora  was  —  no  more ! 


BOOK    IV. 


CHAPTER  I. 

A      RE-ENTRANCE      INTO      LIFE      THROUGH      THE      EBON      GATE, 
AFFLICTION. 

Months  passed  away  before  my  senses  returned  to  me.  I 
rose  from  the  bed  of  suffering  and  of  madness  calm,  collected, 
immovable,  — altered,  but  tranquil.  All  the  vigilance  of  jus- 
tice had  been  employed  to  discover  the  murderers,  but  in 
vain.  The  packet  was  gone ;  and  directly  I,  who  alone  was 
able  to  do  so,  recovered  enough  to  state  the  loss  of  that  docu- 
ment, suspicion  naturally  rested  on  Gerald,  as  on  one  whom 
that  loss  essentially  benefited.  He  came  publicly  forward  to 
anticipate  inquiry.  He  proved  that  he  had  not  stirred  from 
home  during  the  whole  week  in  which  the  event  had  occurred. 
That  seemed  likely  enough  to  others;  it  is  the  tools  that 
work,  not  the  instigator, —  the  bravo,  not  the  employer;  but 
I,  who  saw  in  him  not  only  the  robber,  but  that  fearful  rival 
who  had  long  threatened  Isora  that  my  bridals  should  be 
stained  with  blood,  was  somewhat  staggered  by  the  undenia- 
ble proofs  of  his  absence  from  the  scene  of  that  night;  and  I 
was  still  more  bewildered  in  conjecture  by  remembering  that, 
so  far  as  their  disguises  and  my  own  hurried  and  confused 
observation  could  allow  me  to  judge,  the  person  of  neither 
villain,  still  less  that  of  Isora's  murderer,  corresponded  with 
the  proportions  and  height  of  Gerald.  Still,  however,  whether 
mediately  or  immediately  —  whether  as  the  executor  or  the 
designer  —  not  a  doubt  remained  on  my  mind  that  against  his 
head  was  justice  due.     I  directed  inquiry  towards  Montreuil : 


DEVEREUX.  237 

he  vras  abroad  at  the  time  of  my  recovery;  but,  immediately 
on  his  return,  he  came  forward  bohlly  and  at  once  to  meet 
and  even  to  court  the  inquiry  I  had  instituted ;  he  did  more, 
—  he  demanded  on  what  ground,  besides  my  own  word,  it 
rested  that  this  packet  had  ever  been  in  my  possession;  and, 
to  my  surprise  and  perplexity,  it  was  utterly  impossible  to 
produce  the  smallest  trace  of  Mr.  Marie  Oswald.  His  half- 
brother,  the  attorney,  had  died,  it  is  true,  just  before  the 
event  of  that  night;  and  it  was  also  true  that  he  had  seen 
Marie  on  his  death-bed;  but  no  other  corroboration  of  my 
story  could  be  substantiated,  and  no  other  information  of  the 
man  obtained ;  and  the  partisans  of  Gerald  were  not  slow  in 
hinting  at  the  great  interest  I  had  in  forging  a  tale  respecting 
a  will,  about  the  authenticity  of  which  I  was  at  law. 

The  robbers  had  entered  the  house  by  a  back-door,  which 
was  found  open.  N"o  one  had  perceived  their  entrance  or 
exit,  except  Desmarais,  who  stated  that  he  heard  a  cry;  that 
he,  having  spent  the  greater  part  of  the  night  abroad,  had  not 
been  in  bed  above  an  hour  before  he  heard  it;  that  he  rose 
and  hurried  towards  my  room,  whence  the  cry  came ;  that  he . 
met  two  men  masked  on  the  stairs ;  that  he  seized  one,  who 
struck  him  in  the  breast  with  a  poniard,  dashed  him  to  the 
ground,  and  escaped;  that  he  then  immediately  alarmed  the 
house,  and,  the  servants  accompanying  him,  he  proceeded, 
despite  his  wound,  to  my  apartment,  where  he  found  Isora 
and  myself  bleeding  and  lifeless,  with  the  escritoire  broken 
open. 

The  only  contradiction  to  this  tale  was,  that  the  officers  of 
justice  found  the  escritoire  not  broken  open,  but  unlocked; 
and  yet  the  key  which  belonged  to  it  was  found  in  a  pocket- 
book  in  my  clothes,  where  Desmarais  said,  rightly,  I  always 
kept  it.  How,  then,  had  the  escritoire  been  unlocked?  it 
was  supposed  by  the  master-keys  peculiar  to  experienced 
burglars;  this  diverted  suspicion  into  a  new  channel,  and  it 
was  suggested  that  the  robbery  and  the  murder  had  really 
been  committed  by  common  housebreakers.  It  was  then  dis- 
covered that  a  large  purse  of  gold,  and  a  diamond  cross,  which 
the  escritoire  contained,  were  gone.     And  a  few  articles  of 


238  DEVEREUX. 

ornamental  bijouterie  which  I  had  retained  from  the  wreck  of 
my  former  profusion  in  such  baubles,  and  which  were  kept  in 
a  room  below  stairs,  were  also  missing.  The  circumstances 
immediately  confirmed  the  opinion  of  those  who  threw  the 
guilt  upon  vulgar  and  mercenary  villains,  and  a  very  proba- 
ble and  plausible  supposition  was  built  on  this  hypothesis. 
Might  not  this  Oswald,  at  best  an  adventurer  with  an  indiffer- 
ent reputation,  have  forged  this  story  of  the  packet  in  order 
to  obtain  admission  into  the  house,  and  reconnoitre,  during 
the  confusion  of  a  wedding,  in  what  places  the  most  portable 
articles  of  value  were  stowed?  A  thousand  opportunities,  in 
the  opening  and  shutting  of  the  house-doors,  would  have  al- 
lowed an  ingenious  villain  to  glide  in;  nay,  he  might  have 
secreted  himself  in  my  own  room,  and  seen  the  place  where  I 
had  put  the  packet :  certain  would  he  then  be  that  I  had  se- 
lected for  the  repository  of  a  document  I  believed  so  important 
that  place  where  all  that  I  most  valued  was  secured;  and  hence 
he  would  naturally  resolve  to  break  open  the  escritoire,  above 
all  other  places,  which,  to  an  uninformed  robber,  might  have 
seemed  not  only  less  exposed  to  danger,  but  equally  likely  to 
contain  articles  of  value.  The  same  confusion  which  enabled 
him  to  enter  and  conceal  himself  would  have  also  enabled  him 
to  withdraw  and  introduce  his  accomplice.  This  notion  was 
rendered  probable  by  his  insisting  so  strongly  on  my  not  open- 
ing the  packet  within  a  certain  time;  had  I  opened  it  immedi- 
ately, I  might  have  perceived  that  a  deceit  had  been  practised, 
and  not  have  hoarded  it  in  that  place  of  security  which  it  was 
the  villain's  object  to  discover.  Hence,  too,  in  oj)ening  the 
escritoire,  he  would  naturally  retake  the  packet  (which  other 
plunderers  might  not  have  cared  to  steal),  as  well  as  things 
of  more  real  price,  —  naturally  retake  it,  in  order  that  his 
previous  imposition  might  not  be  detected,  and  that  suspicion 
might  be  cast  upon  those  who  would  appear  to  have  an  inter- 
est in  stealing  a  packet  which  I  believed  to  be  so  inestimably 
important. 

What  gave  a  still  greater  colour  to  this  supposition  was  the 
fact  that  none  of  the  servants  had  seen  Oswald  leave  the 
house,  though  many  had  seen  him  enter.     And  wluxt  put  his 


DEVEREUX.  239 

guilt  beyond  a  doubt  in  the  opinion  of  many,  was  liis  sudden 
and  mysterious  disappearance.  To  my  mind,  all  these  cir- 
Gumstances  were  not  conclusive.  Both  the  men  seemed  taller 
than  Oswald;  and  I  knew  that  that  confusion  which  was  so 
much  insisted  upon,  had  not  —  thanks  to  my  singular  fastidi- 
ousness in  those  matters  —  existed.  I  was  also  perfectly  con- 
vinced that  Oswald  could  not  have  been  hidden  in  my  room 
while  I  locked  up  the  packet;  and  there  was  something  in 
the  behaviour  of  the  murderer  utterly  unlike  that  of  a  com- 
mon robber  actuated  by  common  motives. 

All  these  opposing  arguments  were,  however,  of  a  nature 
to  be  deemed  nugatory  by  the  world;  and  on  the  only  one  of 
any  importance  in  their  estimation,  namely,  the  height  of 
Oswald  being  different  from  that  of  the  robbers,  it  was  cer- 
tainly very  probable  that,  in  a  scene  so  dreadful,  so  brief,  so 
confused,  I  should  easily  be  mistaken.  Having  therefore 
once  flowed  in  this  direction,  public  opinion  soon  settled  into 
the  full  conviction  that  Oswald  was  the  real  criminal,  and 
against  Oswald  was  the  whole  strength  of  inquiry  ultimately, 
but  still  vainly,  bent.  Some  few,  it  is  true,  of  that  kind 
class  who  love  family  mysteries,  and  will  not  easily  forego 
the  notion  of  a  brother's  guilt  for  that  of  a  mere  vulgar  house- 
breaker, still  shook  their  heads  and  talked  of  Gerald;  but  the 
suspicion  was  vague  and  partial,  and  it  was  only  in  the  close 
gossip  of  private  circles  that  it  was  audibly  vented. 

I  had  formed  an  opinion  by  no  means  favourable  to  the  in- 
nocence of  ]Mr.  Jean  Desmarais ;  and  I  took  especial  care  that 
the  Necessitarian,  who  would  only  have  thought  robbery  and 
murder  pieces  of  ill-luck,  should  undergo  a  most  rigorous 
examination.  I  remembered  that  he  had  seen  me  put  the 
packet  into  the  escritoire;  and  this  circumstance  was  alone 
sufficient  to  arouse  my  suspicion.  Desmarais  bared  his  breast 
gracefully  to  the  magistrate.  ""Would  a  man,  Sir,"  he  said, 
"  a  man  of  my  youth,  suffer  such  a  scar  as  that,  if  he  could 
help  it?"  The  magistrate  laughed:  frivolity  is  often  a 
rogue's  best  policy,  if  he  did  but  know  it.  One  finds  it  very 
difficult  to  think  a  coxcomb  can  commit  robbery  and  murder. 
Howbeit  Desmarais  came  off  triumphantly ;  and  immediately 


240  DEVEREUX. 

after  tliis  examination,  which  had  been  his  second  one, 
and  instigated  solely  at  my  desire,  he  came  to  me  with  a 
blush  of  virtuous  indignation  on  his  thin  cheeks.  *'  He  did 
not  presume,"  he  said,  with  a  bow  profounder  than  ever, 
"to  find  fault  with  Monsieur  le  Comte;  it  was  his  fate  to 
be  the  victim  of  ungrateful  suspicion:  but  philosophical 
truths  could  not  always  conquer  the  feelings  of  the  man, 
and  he  came  to  request  his  dismissal."  I  gave  it  him  with 
pleasure. 

I  must  now  state  my  own  feelings  on  the  matter;  but  I 
shall  do  so  briefly.  In  my  own  mind,  I  repeat,  I  was  fully 
impressed  with  the  conviction  that  Gerald  was  the  real  and 
the  head  criminal ;  and  thrice  did  I  resolve  to  repair  to  Dev- 
ereux  Court,  where  he  still  resided,  to  lie  in  wait  for  him,  to 
reproach  him  with  his  guilt,  and  at  the  sword's  point  in 
deadly  combat  to  seek  its  earthly  expiation.  I  spare  the 
reader  a  narration  of  the  terrible  struggles  which  nature,  con- 
science, all  scruples  and  prepossessions  of  education  and  of 
blood,  held  with  this  resolution,  the  unholiness  of  which  I 
endeavoured  to  clothe  with  the  name  of  justice  to  Isora.  Suf- 
fice it  to  say  that  this  resolution  I  forewent  at  last;  and  I  did 
so  more  from  a  feeling  that,  despite  my  own  conviction  of 
Gerald's  guilt,  one  rational  doubt  rested  upon  the  circum- 
stance that  the  murderer  seemed  to  my  eyes  of  an  inferior 
height  to  Gerald,  and  that  the  person  whom  I  had  pursued  on 
the  night  I  had  received  that  wound  which  brought  Isora  to 
my  bedside,  and  who,  it  was  natural  to  believe,  was  my  rival, 
appeared  to  me  not  only  also  slighter  and  shorter  than  Gerald, 
but  of  a  size  that  seemed  to  tally  with  the  murderer's. 

This  solitary  circumstance,  which  contradicted  my  other 
impressions,  was,  I  say,  more  effectual  in  making  me  dismiss 
the  thought  of  personal  revenge  on  Gerald  than  the  motives 
which  virtue  and  religion  should  have  dictated.  The  deep 
desire  of  vengeance  is  the  calmest  of  all  the  passions,  and  it 
is  the  one  which  most  demands  certainty  to  the  reason,  before 
it  releases  its  emotions  and  obeys  their  dictates.  The  blow 
which  was  to  do  justice  to  Isora  I  had  resolved  should  not  be 
dealt  till  I  had  obtained  the  most  utter  certainty  that  it  fell 


DEVEREUX.  241 

upon  the  true  criminal.  And  thus,  thougli  I  cherished 
through  all  time  and  through  all  change  the  burning  wisli  for 
retribution,  I  was  doomed  to  cherish  it  in  secret,  and  not  for 
years  and  years  to  behold  a  hope  of  attaining  it.  Once  only 
I  vented  my  feelings  upon  Gerald.  I  could  not  rest  or  sleep 
or  execute  the  world's  objects  till  I  had  done  so;  but  when 
they  were  thus  once  vented,  methought  I  could  wait  the  will 
of  time  with  a  more  settled  patience,  and  I  re-entered  upon 
the  common  career  of  life  more  externally  fitted  to  fulfil  its 
duties  and  its  aims. 

That  single  indulgence  of  emotion  followed  immediately 
after  my  resolution  of  not  forcing  Gerald  into  bodily  contest. 
I  left  my  sword,  lest  I  might  be  tempted  to  forget  my  deter- 
mination. I  rode  to  Devereux  Court;  I  entered  Gerald's 
chamber,  while  my  horse  stood  unstalled  at  the  gate.  I  said 
but  few  words,  but  each  word  was  a  volume.  I  told  him  to 
enjoy  the  fortune  he  had  acquired  by  fraud,  and  the  con- 
science he  had  stained  with  murder.  "Enjoy  them  while  you 
may,"  I  said,  "but  know  that  sooner  or  later  shall  come  a 
day  when  the  blood  that  cries  from  earth  shall  be  heard  in 
Heaven, —  and  your  blood  shall  appease  it.  Know,  if  I  seem 
to  disobey  the  voice  at  my  heart,  I  hear  it  night  and  day; 
and  I  only  live  to  fulfil  at  one  time  its  commands." 

I  left  him  stunned  and  horror-stricken.  I  flung  myself  on 
my  horse,  and  cast  not  a  look  behind  as  I  rode  from  the  tow- 
ers and  domains  of  which  I  had  been  despoiled.  Never  from 
that  time  would  I  trust  myself  to  meet  or  see  the  despoiler. 
Once,  directly  after  I  had  thus  braved  him  in  his  usurped 
hall,  he  wrote  to  me.  I  returned  the  letter  unopened.  Enough 
of  this :  the  reader  will  now  perceive  what  was  the  real  nature 
of  my  feelings  of  revenge;  and  will  appreciate  the  reasons 
which  throughout  this  history  will  cause  me  never  or  rarely 
to  recur  to  those  feelings  again,  until  at  least  he  will  per- 
ceive a  just  hope  of  their  consummation. 

I  went  with  a  quiet  air  and  a  set  brow  into  the  world.  It 
was  a  time  of  great  political  excitement.  Though  my  creed 
forbade  me  the  open  senate,  it  could  not  deprive  me  of  the 
veiled  intrigue.     St.  John  found  ample  employment  for  my 

16 


242  DEVEREUX. 

ambition;  and  I  entered  into  the  toils  and  objects  of  my  race 
with  a  seeming  avidity  more  eager  and  engrossing  than  their 

'^own.  In  what  ensues,  you  will  perceive  a  great  change  in 
the  character  of  my  memoirs.  Hitherto,  I  chiefly  portrayed 
to  you  myself.  I  bared  open  to  you  my  heart  and  temper, — 
my  passions,  and  the  thoughts  which  belong  to  our  passions. 
I  shall  now  rather  bring  before  you  the  natures  and  the  minds 
of  others.  The  lover  and  the  dreamer  are  no  more!  The 
satirist  and  the  observer;  the  derider  of  human  follies,  par- 
ticipating while  he  derides ;  the  worldly  and  keen  actor  in  the 
human  drama,  —  these  are  what  the  district  of  my  history  on 
which  you  enter  will  portray  me.  From  whatever  pangs  to 
me  the  change  may  have  been  wrought,  you  will  be  the  gainer 
by  that  change.  The  gaudy  dissipation  of  courts ;  the  vicissi- 
tudes and  the  vanities  of  those  who  haunt  them ;  the  glitter- 
ing jest  and  the  light  strain;  the  passing  irony  or  the  close 
reflection;  the  characters  of  the  great;  the  colloquies  of  wit, 
—  these  are  what  delight  the  temper,  and  amuse  the  leisure 
more  than  the  solemn  narrative  of  fated  love.  As  the  mon- 
ster of  the  Nile  is  found  beneath  the  sunniest  banks  and  in 
the  most  freshening  wave,  the  stream  may  seem  to  wander 
on  in  melody  and  mirth,  —  the  ripple  and  the  beam ;  but  xcho 
shall  tell  what  lurks,  dark,  and  fearful,  and  ever  vigilant, 

^below ! 


CHAPTER  II. 

AMBITIOUS    PROJECTS. 

It  is  not  my  intention  to  write  a  political  history,  instead 
of  a  private  biography.  No  doubt  in  the  next  century  there 
will  be  volumes  enough  written  in  celebration  of  that  era 
which  my  contemporaries  are  pleased  to  term  the  greatest 
that  in  modern  times  has  ever  existed.  Besides,  in  the  pri- 
vate and  more  concealed  intrigues  with  which  I  was  engaged 


DEVEREUX.  243 

with  St,  John,  there  was  something  which  regard  for  others 
would  compel  me  to  preserve  in  silence,  I  shall  therefore 
briefly  state  that  in  1712  St.  John  dignified  the  peerage  by 
that  title  which  his  exile  and  his  genius  have  rendered  so 
illustrious, 

I  was  with  him  on  the  day  this  honour  was  publicly  an- 
nounced. I  found  him  walking  to  and  fro  his  room,  with  his 
arms  folded,  and  with  a  very  peculiar  compression  of  his 
nether  lip,  which  was  a  custom  he  had  when  anything  greatly 
irritated  or  disturbed  him, 

"Well,"  said  he,  stopping  abruptly  as  he  saw  me,  — "well, 
considering  the  peacock  Harley  brought  so  bright  a  plume  to 
his  own  nest,  we  must  admire  the  generosity  which  spared 
this  gay  dunghill  feather  to  mine !  " 

"How?"  said  I,  though  I  knew  the  cause  of  his  angry  met- 
aphor. St.  John  used  metaphors  in  speech  scarcely  less  than 
in  writing, 

"How?"  cried  the  new  peer,  eagerly,  and  with  one  of  those 
flashing  looks  which  made  his  expression  of  indignation  the 
most  powerful  I  ever  saw;  "how!  Was  the  sacred  promise 
granted  to  me  of  my  own  collateral  earldom  to  be  violated ; 
and  while  the  weight,  the  toil,  the  difficulty,  the  odium  of 
affairs,  from  which  Harley,  the  despotic  dullard,  shrank  alike 
in  imbecility  and  fear,  had  been  left  exclusively  to  my  share, 
an  insult  in  the  shape  of  an  honour  to  be  left  exclusively  to  my 
reward?  You  know  my  disposition  is  not  to  overrate  the  mere 
baubles  of  ambition;  you  know  I  care  little  for  titles  and  for 
orders  in  themselves :  but  the  most  worthless  thing  becomes 
of  consequence  if  made  a  symbol  of  what  is  of  value,  or  de- 
signed as  the  token  of  an  affront.  Listen :  a  collateral  earl- 
dom falls  vacant;  it  is  partly  promised  me.  Suddenly  I  am 
dragged  from  the  House  of  Commons,  where  I  am  all  jiower- 
ful;  I  am  given  —  not  this  earldom,  which,  as  belonging  to 
my  house,  would  alone  have  induced  me  to  consent  to  a  re- 
moval from  a  sphere  Avhere  my  enemies  allow  I  had  greater 
influence  than  any  single  commoner  in  the  kingdom, — I  am 
given,  not  this,  but  a  miserable  compromise  of  distinction,  a 
new  and  an  inferior  rank;  given  it  against  my  will;  thrust 


244  DEVEREUX. 

into  tlie  Upper  House  to  defend  what  this  pompous  driveller, 
Oxford,  is  forced  to  forsake ;  and  not  only  exposed  to  all  the 
obloquy  of  a  most  infuriate  party  opposed  to  me,  but  morti- 
fied by  an  intentional  affront  from  the  party  which,  heart  and 
soul,  I  have  supported.     You  know  that  my  birth  is  to  the 
full  as  noble  as  Harley's ;  you  know  that  my  influence  in  the 
Lower  House   is  far  greater;    you  know   that  my  name  in 
the  country,   nay,  throughout  Europe,  is   far   more  popular ; 
you  know  that  the  labour  allotted  to  me  has  been  far  more 
weighty ;  you  know  that  the  late  Peace  of  Utrecht  is  entirely 
my  framing,   that  the  foes  to  the  measure  direct  all  their 
venom  against  me,  that  the  friends  of  the  measure  heap  upon 
me  all  the  honour :  when,  therefore,  this  exact  time  is  chosen 
for  breaking  a  promise  formerly  made  to  me;    when  a  pre- 
tended honour,  known  to  be  most  unpalatable  to  me,  is  thrust 
upon  me ;  when,  at  this  very  time,  too,  six  vacant  ribbons  of 
the  garter  flaunt  by  me, —  one  resting  on  the  knee  of  this 
Harley,  who  was  able  to  obtain  an  earldom  for  himself,  —  the 
others  given  to  men  of  far  inferior  pretensions,  though  not 
inferior  rank  to  my  own, —  myself  markedly,  glaringly  passed 
by :  how  can  I  avoid  feeling  that  things  despicable  in  them- 
selves are  become  of  a  vital  power,  from  the  evident  inten- 
tion that  they  should  be  insults  to  me?    The  insects  we  despise 
as  they  buzz  around  us  become  dangerous  when  they  settle  on 
ourselves  and  we  feel  their  sting!     But,"  added  Bolingbroke, 
suddenly  relapsing  into  a  smile,  "I  have  long  wanted  a  nick- 
name :  I  have  now  found  one  for  myself.     You  know  Oxford 
is  called  'The  Dragon; '  well,  henceforth  call  me  'St.  George; ' 
for,  as  sure  as  I  live,  will  I  overthrow  the  Dragon.     I  say 
this  in  jest,  but  I  mean  it  in  earnest.     And  now  that  I  have 
discharged  my  bile,  let  us  talk  of  this  wonderful  poem,  which, 
though  I  have  read  it  a  hundred  times,  I  am  never  wearied  of 
admiring." 

"Ah  — 'The  Eape  of  the  Lock!  '  It  is  indeed  beautiful, 
but  I  am  not  fond  of  poetry  now.  By  the  way,  how  is  it 
that  all  our  modern  poets  speak  to  the  taste,  the  mind,  the 
judgment,  and  never  to  the  feelings  ?  Are  they  right  in 
doing  so?" 


DEVEREUX.  245 

^r  "My  friend,  we  are  now  in  a  polished  age.  What  have 
feelings  to  do  with  civilization?" 

"  Why,  more  than  you  Avill  allow.  Perhaps  the  greater  our 
civilization,  the  more  numerous  our  feelings.  Our  animal 
passions  lose  in  excess,  but  our  mental  gain;  and  it  is  to  the 
mental  that  poetry  should  speak.  Our  English  muse,  even 
in  this  wonderful  poem,  seems  to  me  to  be  growing,  like  our 
English  beauties,  too  glitteringly  artificial:  it  wears  roicye 
and  a  hoop ! " 

"Ha!  ha! — yes,  they  ornament  now,  rather  than  create; 
'  cut  drapery,  rather  than  marble.  Our  poems  remind  me  of 
the  ancient  statues.  Phidias  made  them,  and  Bubo  and  Bom- 
bax  dressed  them  in  purple.  But  this  does  not  apply  to 
young  Pope,  who  has  shown  in  this  very  poem  that  he  can 
work  the  quarry  as  well  as  choose  the  gems.  But  see,  the 
carriage  awaits  us.  I  have  worlds  to  do;  first  there  is  Swift 
to  see;  next,  there  is  some  exquisite  Burgundy  to  taste; 
then,  too,  there  is  the  new  actress ;  and,  by  the  by,  you  must 
tell  me  what  you  think  of  Bentley's  Horace;  we  will  drive 
first  to  my  bookseller's  to  see  it;  Swift  shall  wait;  Heavens! 
how  he  would  rage  if  he  heard  me.  I  was  going  to  say  what 
a  pity  it  is  that  that  man  should  have  so  much  littleness  of 
vanity ;  but  I  should  have  uttered  a  very  foolish  sentiment  if 
I  had!" 

"And  why?" 

"Because,  if  he  had  not  so  much  littleness  perhaps  he 
would  not  be  so  great :  what  but  vanity  makes  a  man  write 
and  speak,  and  slave,  and  become  famous?  Alas!"  and  here 
St.  John's  countenance  changed  from  gayety  to  thought; 
"'tis  a  melancholy  thing  in  human  nature  that  so  little  is 
good  and  noble,  both  in  itself  and  in  its  source  I  Our  very 
worst  passions  will  often  produce  sublimer  effects  than  our 
best.  Phidias  (we  will  apply  to  him  for  another  illustration) 
made  the  wonderful  statue  of  Minerva  for  his  country ;  but, 
in  order  to  avenge  himself  on  that  country,  he  eclipsed  it  in 
the  far  more  wonderful  statue  of  the  Jupiter  Olympius.  Thus, 
from  a  vicious  feeling  emanated  a  greater  glory  than  from  an 
exalted  principle ;  and  the  artist  was  less  celebrated  for  the 


246  DEVEREUX. 

monument  of  his  patriotism  than  for  that  of  his  revenge! 
But,  allons,  mon  cher,  ^xe  grow  wise  and  dull.  Let  us  go  to 
choose  our  Burgundy  and  our  comrades  to  share  it." 

However  with  his  characteristic  affectation  of  bounding 
ambition,  and  consequently  hope,  to  no  one  object  in  particu- 
lar, and  of  mingling  affairs  of  light  importance  with  those  of 
the  most  weighty,  Lord  Bolingbroke  might  pretend  not  to  re- 
cur to,  or  to  dwell  upon,  his  causes  of  resentment,  from 
that  time  they  never  ceased  to  influence  him  to  a  great,  and 
for  a  statesman  an  unpardonable,  degree.  We  cannot,  how- 
ever, blame  politicians  for  their  hatred,  until,  without  hating 
anybody,  we  have  for  a  long  time  been  politicians  ourselves ; 
strong  minds  have  strong  passions,  and  men  of  strong  passions 
must  hate  as  well  as  love. 

The  next  two  years  passed,  on  my  part,  in  perpetual  in- 
trigues of  diplomacy,  combined  with  an  unceasing  though 
secret  endeavour  to  penetrate  the  mystery  which  hung  over 
the  events  of  that  dreadful  night.  All,  however,  was  m  vain. 
1  know  not  what  the  English  police  may  be  hereafter,  but,  in 
my  time,  its  officers  seem  to  be  chosen,  like  honest  Dogberry's 
companions,  among  "the  most  senseless  and  fit  men."  They 
are,  however,  to  the  full,  as  much  knaves  as  fools ;  and  per- 
haps a  wiser  posterity  will  scarcely  believe  that,  when  things 
of  the  greatest  value  are  stolen,  the  owners,  on  applying  to 
the  chief  magistrate,  will  often  be  told  that  no  redress  can  be 
given  there,  while  one  of  the  officers  will  engage  to  get  back 
the  goods,  upon  paying  the  thieves  a  certain  sum  in  exchange : 
if  this  is  refused,  your  effects  are  gone  forever!  A  pretty 
state  of  internal  government! 

It  was  about  a  year  after  the  murder  that  my  mother  in- 
formed me  of  an  event  which  tore  from  my  heart  its  last  pri- 
vate tie ;  namely,  the  death  of  Aubrey.  The  last  letter  I  had 
received  from  him  has  been  placed  before  the  reader;  it  was 
written  at  Devereux  Court,  just  before  he  left  it  forever. 
Montreuil  had  been  with  him  during  the  illness  Avhich  proved 
fatal,  and  which  occurred  in  Ireland.  He  died  of  consump- 
tion; and  when  I  heard  from  my  mother  that  Montreuil  dwelt 
most  glowingly  upon  the  devotion  he  had  manifested  during 


DEVEREUX.  247 

the  last  months  of  his  life,  I  could  not  help  fearing  that  the 
morbidity  of  his  superstition  had  done  the  work  of  physical 
disease.  On  this  fatal  news,  my  mother  retired  from  Dev- 
ereux  Court  to  a  company  of  ladies  of  our  faith,  who  resided 
together,  and  practised  the  most  ascetic  rules  of  a  nunnery, 
though  they  gave  hot  to  their  house  that  ecclesiastical  name. 
My  mother  had  long  meditated  this  project,  and  it  was  now  a 
melancholy  pleasure  to  put  it  into  execution.  From  that 
period  I  rarely  heard  from  her,  and  by  little  and  little  she  so 
shrank  from  all  worldly  objects  that  my  visits,  and  I  believe 
even  those  of  Gerald,  became  unwelcome  and  distasteful. 

As  to  my  lawsuit,  it  went  on  gloriously,  according  to  the 
assertions  of  my  brisk,  little  lawyer,  who  had  declared  so  em- 
phatically that  he  liked  making  quick  work  of  a  suit.  And, 
at  last,  what  with  bribery  and  feeing  and  pushing,  a  day  was 
fixed  for  the  final  adjustment  of  my  claim.  It  came  —  the 
cause  was  heard  and  lost!  I  should  have  been  ruined,  but 
for  one  circumstance;  the  old  lady,  my  father's  godmother, 
who  had  witnessed  my  first  and  concealed  marriage,  left  me  a 
pretty  estate  near  Epsom.  I  turned  it  into  gold,  and  it  was 
fortunate  that  I  did  so  soon,  as  the  reader  is  about  to  see. 

The  queen  died;  and  a  cloud  already  began  to  look  men- 
acing to  the  eyes  of  the  Viscount  Bolingbroke,  and  therefore 
to  those  of  the  Count  Devereux,  "  We  will  weather  out  the 
shower,"  said  Bolingbroke. 

"Could  not  you,"  said  I,  "make  our  friend  Oxford  the 
Talapat?"^  and  Bolingbroke  laughed-  All  men  find  wit  in 
the  jests  broken  on  their  enemies! 

One  morning,  however,  I  received  a  laconic  note  from  him, 
which,  notwithstanding  its  shortness  and  seeming  gayety,  I 
knew  well  signified  that  something  not  calculated  for  laughter 
had  occurred.  I  went,  and  found  that  his  new  Majesty  had 
deprived  him  of  the  seals  and  secured  his  papers.     We  looked 

1  A  thing  used  by  the  Siamese  for  the  same  purpose  as  we  now  use  the 
umbrella.  A  work  descriptive  of  Siam,  by  M.  de  la  Louhere,  in  which  the 
Talapat  is  somewhat  minutely  described,  having  been  translated  into  English, 
and  having  excited  some  curiosity,  a  few  years  before  Count  Devereux  now 
uses  the  word,  the  allusion  was  probably  familiar.  —  Ed. 


248  DEVEREUX. 

very  blank  at  each  other.  At  last,  Bolingbroke  smiled.  I 
must  say  that,  culpable  as  he  was  in  some  points  as  a  politi- 
cian,—  culpable,  not  from  being  ambitious  (for  I  would  not 
give  much  for  the  statesman  who  is  otherwise),  but  from  not 
having  inseparably  linked  his  ambition  to  the  welfare  of  his 
country,  rather  than  to  that  of  a  party;  for,  despite  of  what 
has  been  said  of  him,  his  ambition  was  never  selfish, — culpa- 
ble as  he  was  when  glory  allured  him,  he  was  most  admirable 
Avhen  danger  assailed  him!  ^  and,  by  the  shade  of  that  Tully 
whom  he  so  idolized,  his  philosophy  was  the  most  conven- 
iently worn  of  any  person's  I  ever  met.  When  it  would  have 
been  in  the  way  —  at  the  supper  of  an  actress,  in  the  levees  of 
a  court,  in  the  boudoir  of  a  beauty,  in  the  arena  of  the  senate, 
in  the  intrigue  of  the  cabinet  —  you  would  not  have  observed 

1  I  know  well  that  it  has  been  said  otherwise,  and  that  Bolingbroke  has 
been  accused  of  timidity  for  not  staying  in  England,  and  making  Mr.  Robert 
Walpole  a  present  of  his  head.  The  elegant  author  of  "  De  Vere  "  has  fallen 
into  a  very  great  though  a  very  hackneyed  error,  in  lauding  Oxford's  political 
character,  and  condemning  Bolingbroke's,  because  the  former  awaited  a  trial 
and  the  latter  shunned  it.  A  very  little  reflection  might  perhaps  have  taught 
the  accomplished  novelist  that  there  could  be  no  comparison  between  the  two 
cases,  because  there  was  no  comparison  between  the  relative  danger  of  Oxford 
and  Bolingbroke.  Oxford,  as  their  subsequent  impeachment  proved,  was  far 
more  numerously  and  powerfully  supported  than  his  illustrious  enemy :  and 
there  is  really  no  earthly  cause  for  doubting  the  truth  of  Bolingbroke's  asser- 
tion; namely,  that  "  He  had  received  repeated  and  certain  information  that  a 
resolution  was  taken,  by  those  who  had  power  to  execute  it,  to  pursue  him  to 
the  scaffold."  There  are  certain  situations  in  which  a  brave  and  a  good  man 
should  willingly  surrender  life:  but  I  humbly  opine  that  there  may  some- 
times exist  a  situation  in  which  he  should  preserve  it ;  and  if  ever  man  was 
placed  in  that  latter  situation,  it  was  Lord  Bolingbroke.  To  choose  uttneces- 
sarili/  to  put  one's  head  under  the  axe,  without  benefiting  any  but  one's 
enemies  by  the  act,  is,  in  my  eyes,  the  proof  of  a  fool,  not  a  hero ;  and  to 
attack  a  man  for  not  placing  his  head  in  that  agreeable  and  most  useful  pre- 
dicament —  for  preferring,  in  short,  to  live  for  a  world,  rather  than  to  perish 
by  a  faction  —  appears  to  be  a  mode  of  arguing  that  has  a  wonderful  resem- 
blance to  nonsense.  When  Lord  Bolingbroke  was  impeached,  two  men  only 
out  of  those  numerous  retainers  in  the  Lower  House  who  had  been  wont  so 
loudly  to  applaud  the  secretary  of  state,  in  his  prosecution  of  those  very 
measures  for  which  he  was  now  to  be  condemned,  —  two  men  only,  General 
Ross  and  Mr.  Hungerford,  uttered  a  single  syllable  in  defence  of  the  minister 
disgraced  —  Ed. 


DEVEREUX.  249 

a  seam  of  the  good  old  garment.  But  directly  it  was  wanted 
—  in  the  liour  of  pain,  in  the  day  of  peril,  in  the  suspense  of 
exile,  in  (worst  of  all)  the  torpor  of  tranquillity  —  my  extra- 
ordinary friend  unfolded  it  piece  by  piece,  wrapped  himself 
up  in  it,  sat  down,  defied  the  world,  and  uttered  the  most 
beautiful  sentiments  uj^on  the  comfort  and  luxury  of  his  rai- 
ment, that  can  possibly  be  imagined.  It  used  to  remind  me, 
that  same  philosophy  of  his,  of  the  enchanted  tent  in  the 
Arabian  Tale,  which  one  moment  lay  wrapped  in  a  nut-shell, 
and   the  next  covered  an  army. 

Boliugbroke  smiled,  and  quoted  Cicero,  and  after  an  hour's 
conversation,  which  on  his  part  was  by  no  means  like  that  of 
a  person  whose  very  head  was  in  no  enviable  state  of  safety, 
he  slid  at  once  from  a  sarcasm  upon  Steele  into  a  discussion  as 
to  the  best  measures  to  be  adopted.  Let  me  be  brief  on  this 
point.  Throughout  the  whole  of  that  short  session,  he  be- 
haved in  a  manner  more  delicately  and  profoundly  wise  than, 
I  think,  the  whole  of  his  previous  administration  can  equal. 
He  sustained  with  the  most  unflagging,  the  most  unwearied, 
dexterity,  the  sinking  spirits  of  his  associates.  Without  an 
act,  or  the  shadow  of  an  act,  that  could  be  called  time-serv- 
ing, he  laid  himself  out  to  conciliate  the  king,  and  to  propi- 
tiate Parliament;  with  a  dignified  prudence  which,  while  it 
seemed  above  petty  pique,  was  well  calculated  to  remove  the 
appearance  of  that  disaffection  with  which  he  was  charged, 
and  discriminated  justly  between  the  king  and  the  new  ad- 
ministration, he  lent  his  talents  to  the  assistance  of  the  mon- 
arch by  whom  his  impeachment  was  already  resolved  on,  and 
aided  in  the  settlement  of  the  civil  list  while  he  was  in  full 
expectation  of  a  criminal  accusation. 

The  new  Parliament  met,  and  all  doubt  was  over.  An  im- 
peachment of  the  late  administration  was  decided  upon.  I 
was  settling  bills  with  my  little  lawyer  one  morning,  when 
Bolingbroke  entered  my  room.  He  took  a  chair,  nodded  to 
me  not  to  dismiss  my  assistant,  joined  our  conversation,  and 
when  conversation  was  merged  in  accounts,  he  took  up  a  book 
of  songs,  and  amused  himself  with  it  till  my  business  was 
over  and  my  disciple  of  Coke  retired.     He  then  said,   very 


250  DEVEREUX. 

slowly,  and  with  a  slight  yawn,  "  You  have  never  been  at 
Paris,   I  think?" 

"Never:  you  are  enchanted  with  that  gay  city." 

"Yes,  but  when  I  was  last  there,  the  good  people  flattered 
my  vanity  enough  to  bribe  my  taste.  I  shall  be  able  to  form 
a  more  unbiased  and  impartial  judgment  in  a  few  days." 

"  A  few  days !  " 

"Ay,  my  dear  Count :  does  it  startle  you?  I  wonder  whether 
the  pretty  De  Tencin  will  be  as  kind  to  me  as  she  was,  and 
whether  tout  le  vionde  (that  most  exquisite  phrase  for  five 
hundred  people)  will  rise  now  at  the  Opera  on  my  entrance. 
Do  you  think  that  a  banished  minister  can  have  any,  the 
smallest  resemblance  to  what  he  was  when  in  power?  By 
Gumdragon,  as  our  friend  Swift  so  euphoniously  and  ele- 
gantly says,  or  swears,  by  Gumdragon,  I  think  not!  What 
altered  Satan  so  after  his  fall?  what  gave  him  horns  and  a 
tail?  Nothing  but  his  disgrace.  Oh!  years,  and  disease, 
plague,  pestilence,  and  famine  never  alter  a  man  so  much  as 
the  loss  of  power." 

"  You  say  wisely ;  but  what  am  I  to  gather  from  your  words? 
is  it  all  over  with  us  in  real  earnest?  " 

"  Us !  with  me  it  is  indeed  all  over :  t/ou  may  stay  here  for- 
ever. 7  must  fly :  a  packet-boat  to  Calais,  or  a  room  in  the 
Tower,  I  must  choose  betweeiji  the  two.  I  had  some  thoughts 
of  remaining  and  confronting  my  trial :  but  it  would  be  folly ; 
there  is  a  difference  between  Oxford  and  me.  He  has  friends, 
though  out  of  power :  I  have  none.  If  they  impeach  him,  he 
will  escape ;  if  they  impeach  me,  they  will  either  shut  me  up 
like  a  rat  in  a  cage,  for  twenty  years,  till,  old  and  forgotten, 
I  tear  my  heart  out  with  my  confinement,  or  they  will  bring 
me  at  once  to  the  block.  No,  no :  I  must  keep  myself  for  an- 
other day ;  and,  while  they  banish  me,  I  will  leave  the  seeds 
of  the  true  cause  to  grow  up  till  my  return.  Wise  and  ex- 
quisite policy  of  my  foes, —  Trustra  Cassium  amovisti,  si 
gliscere  et  vigere  Brutorum  emulos  passurus  es. '  ^  But  I  have 
no  time  to  lose:  farewell,  my  friend;  God  bless  you;  you  are 

1  "  Vainly  have  you  banished  Cassius,  if  you  shall  suffer  the  rivals  of  the 
Brutuses  to  spread  themselves  and  flourish." 


DEVEREUX.  251 

saved  from  these  storms;  and  even  intolerance,  which  pre- 
vented the  exercise  of  your  genius,  preserves  you  now  from 
the  danger  of  having  applied  that  genius  to  the  welfare  of 
your  country.  Heaven  knows,  whatever  my  faults,  I  have 
sacrificed  what  I  loved  better  than  all  things  —  study  and 
pleasure  —  to  her  cause.  In  her  wars  I  served  even  my  enemy 
Marlborough,  in  order  to  serve  her;  her  peace  I  effected,  and 
I  suffer  for  it.     Be  it  so,  I  am  — 

"  '  Fidens  animi  atque  iu  utruraque  paratus.'  ^ 

Once  more  I  embrace  you;  farewell." 

"Xay,"  said  I,  "listen  to  me;  you  shall  not  go  alone. 
France  is  already,  in  reality,  my  native  country :  there  did  I 
receive  my  birth;  it  is  no  hardship  to  return  to  my  natale 
solum;  it  is  an  honour  to  return  in  the  company  of  Henry  St. 
John.  I  will  have  no  refusal:  my  law  case  is  over;  my 
papers  are  few;  my  money  I  will  manage  to  transfer.  Re- 
member the  anecdote  you  told  me  yesterday  of  Anaxagoras, 
who,  when  asked  where  his  country  was,  pointed  with  his 
finger  to  heaven.  It  is  applicable,  I  hope,  as  well  to  me  as 
to  yourself:  to  me,  vmcelebrated  and  obscure;  to  you,  the 
senator  and  the  statesman." 

In  vain  Bolingbroke  endeavoured  to  dissuade  me  from  this 
resolution;  he  was  the  only  friend  fate  had  left  me,  and  I 
was  resolved  that  misfortune  should  not  part  us.  At  last  he 
embraced  me  tenderly,  and  consented  to  what  he  could  not 
resist.  "But  you  cannot,"  he  said,  "quit  England  to-morrow 
night,  as  I  must." 

"Pardon  me,"  I  answered,  "the  briefer  the  preparation,  the 
greater  the  excitement,  and  what  in  life  is  equal  to  that  ?  " 

"True,"  answered  Bolingbroke;  "to  some  natures,  too 
restless  to  be  happy,  excitement  can  compensate  for  all, — 
compensate  for  years  wasted,  and  hopes  scattered,  —  com- 
pensate for  bitter  regret  at  talents  perverted  and  passions 
unrestrained.  But  we  will  talk  philosophically  when  we 
have  more  leisure.  You  will  dine  with  me  to-morrow:  we 
will  go  to  the  play  together;  I  promised  poor  Lucy  that  I 
1  "  Confident  of  soul  and  prepared  for  either  fortune." 


252  DEVEREUX. 

would  see  lier  at  the  theatre,  and  I  caunot  break  my  word; 
and  an  hour  afterwards  we  will  commence  our  excursion  to 
Paris.  And  now  I  will  explain  to  you  the  plan  I  have 
arranged  for  our  escape." 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  REAL  ACTORS  SPECTATORS  TO  THE  FALSE  ONES. 

It  was  a  brilliant  night  at  the  theatre.  The  boxes  were 
crowded  to  excess.  Every  eye  was  directed  towards  Lord 
Bolingbroke,  who,  with  his  usual  dignified  and  consummate 
grace  of  manner,  conversed  with  the  various  loiterers  with 
whom,   from  time  to  time,   his  box  was  filled. 

"Look  yonder,"  said  a  very  young  man,  of  singular  per- 
sonal beauty,  "look  yonder,  my  Lord,  what  a  panoply  of 
smiles  the  Duchess  wears  to-night,  and  how  triumphantly 
she  directs  those  eyes,  which  they  say  were  once  so  beautiful, 
to  your  box." 

"Ah,"  said  Bolingbroke,  "her  Grace  does  me  too  much  hon- 
our: I  must  not  neglect  to  acknowledge  her  courtesy;"  and, 
leaning  over  the  box,  Bolingbroke  watched  his  opportunity 
till  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough,  who  sat  oj)posite  to  him, 
and  Avho  was  talking  with  great  and  evidentl}^  joyous  vivacity 
to  a  tall,  thin  man,  beside  her,  directed  her  attention,  and 
that  of  her  whole  party,  in  a  fixed  and  concentrated  stare,  to 
the  imperilled  minister.  With  a  dignified  smile  Lord  Boling- 
broke then  put  his  hand  to  his  heart,  and  bowed  profoundly ; 
the  Duchess  looked  a  little  abashed,  but  returned  the  cour- 
tesy quickly  and  slightly,  and  renewed  her  conversation. 

"Faith,  my  Lord,"  cried  the  young  gentleman  who  had  be- 
fore spoken,  "you  managed  that  well!  Ko  reproach  is  like 
that  which  we  clothe  in  a  smile,  and  present  with  a  bow." 


DEVEREUX.  253 

"I  am  happy,"  said  Lord  Bolingbroke,  "that  my  conduct  re- 
ceives the  grave  support  of  a  sou  of  iriy  political  opponent." 

"  Grave  support,  my  Lord!  you  are  mistaken:  never  apply 
the  epithet  grave  to  anything  belonging  to  Philip  Wharton. 
But,  in  sober  earnest,  I  have  sat  long  enough  with  you  to 
terrify  all  my  friends,  and  must  now  show  my  worshipful 
face  in  another  part  of  the  house.  Count  Devereux,  will  you 
come  with  me  to  the  Duchess's?" 

"What!  the  Duchess's  immediately  after  Lord  Boling- 
broke's! — the  Whig  after  the  Tory:  it  would  be  as  trying  to 
one's  assurance  as  a  change  from  the  cold  bath  to  the  hot  to 
one's  constitution." 

"  Well,  and  what  so  delightful  as  a  trial  in  which  one  tri- 
umphs? and  a  change  in  which  one  does  not  lose  even  one's 
countenance?" 

"Take  care,  my  Lord,"  said  Bolingbroke,  laughing;  "those 
are  dangerous  sentiments  for  a  man  like  you,  to  whom  the 
hopes  of  two  great  parties  are  directed,  to  express  so  openly, 
even  on  a  trifle  and  in  a  jest." 

"  'T  is  for  that  reason  I  utter  them.  I  like  being  the  object 
of  hope  and  fear  to  men,  since  my  miserable  fortune  made  me 
marry  at  fourteen,  and  cease  to  be  aught  but  a  wedded  thing 
to  the  women.  But  sup  with  me  at  the  Bedford, —  you,  my 
Lord,  and  the  Count." 

"And  you  will  ask  Walpole,  Addison,  and  Steele,^  to  join 
us,  eh?"  said  Bolingbroke.  "No,  we  have  other  engage- 
ments for  to-night;  but  we  shall  meet  again  soon." 

And  the  eccentric  youth  nodded  his  adieu,  disappeared, 
and  a  minute  afterwards  was  seated  by  the  side  of  the  Duch- 
ess of  Marlborough. 

"There  goes  a  boy,"  said  Bolingbroke,  "who,  at  the  age  of 
fifteen,  has  in  him  the  power  to  be  the  greatest  man  of  his 
day,  and  in  all  probability  will  only  be  the  most  singular. 
An  obstinate  man  is  sure  of  doing  well;  a  wavering  or  a 
whimsical  one  (which  is  the  same  thing)  is  as  uncertain,  even 
in  his  elevation,  as  a  shuttlecock.  But  look  to  the  box  at  the 
right:  do  you  see  the  beautiful  Lady  Mary?" 

1  All  political  opponents  of  Lord  Bolingbroke. 


254  DEVEREUX. 

''Yes,"  said  Mr.  Trefusis,  who  was  with  us,  "she  has  only 
just  come  to  town.  'T  is  said  she  and  Ned  Montagu  live 
like  doves." 

"How!"  said  Lord  Bolingbroke;  "that  quick,  restless  eye 
seems  to  have  very  little  of  the  dove  in  it." 

"  But  how  beautiful  she  is ! "  said  Trefusis,  admiringly. 
"  What  a  pity  that  those  exquisite  hands  should  be  so  dirty ! 
It  reminds  me  "  (Trefusis  loved  a  coarse  anecdote)  "  of  her  an- 
swer to  old  Madame  de  Xoailles,  who  made  exactly  the  same 
remark  to  her.  'Do  you  call  my  hands  dirty?'  cried  Lady 
Mary,  holding  them  up  with  the  most  innocent  naivete. 
'Ah,  Madame,  si  voxis  pouviez  voir  mes  pieds!  '  " 

^^ Fi  donc,'^  said  I,  turning  away;  "but  who  is  that  very 
small,  deformed  man  behind  her,  —  he  with  the  bright  black 
eye?" 

"Know  you  not?  "  said  Bolingbroke;  "tell  it  not  in  Gath! 
—  't  is  a  rising  sun,  whom  I  have  already  learned  to  wor- 
ship,—  the  young  author  of  the  'Essay  on  Criticism,'  and 
'The  Eape  of  the  Lock.'  Egad,  the  little  poet  seems  to 
eclipse  us  with  the  women  as  much  as  with  the  men.  Do 
you  mark  how  eagerly  Lady  Mary  listens  to  him,  even  though 
the  tall  gentleman  in  black,  who  in  vain  endeavours  to  win 
her  attentions,  is  thought  the  handsomest  gallant  in  London? 
Ah,  Genius  is  paid  by  smiles  from  all  females  but  Fortune; 
little,  methinks,  does  that  young  poet,  in  his  first  intoxica- 
tion of  flattery  and  fame,  guess  what  a  lot  of  contest  and 
strife  is  in  store  for  him.  The  very  breath  which  a  literary 
man  respires  is  hot  with  hatred,  and  the  youthful  proselyte 
enters  that  career  which  seems  to  him  so  glittering,  even  as 
Dame  Pliant's  brother  in  the  'Alchemist'  entered  town, — 
not  to  be  fed  with  luxury,  and  diet  on  pleasure,  but  'to  learn 
to  quarrel  and  live  by  his  wits.' " 

The  play  was  now  nearly  over.  "With  great  gravity  Lord 
Bolingbroke  summoned  one  of  the  principal  actors  to  his 
box,  and  bespoke  a  play  for  the  next  week;  leaning  then  on 
my  arm,  he  left  the  theatre.  We  hastened  to  his  home,  put 
on  our  disguises,  and,  without  any  adventure  worth  recount- 
ing, effected  our  escape  and  landed  safely  at  Calais. 


DEVEREUX.  255 


CHAPTER   IV. 

PARIS. A    FEMALE    POLITICIAN    AND    AN    ECCLESIASTICAL 

ONE. — SUNDRY    OTHER    MATTERS. 

The  ex-minister  v^as  received  both  at  Calais  and  at  Paris 
with  the  most  gratifying  honours :  he  was  then  entirely  the 
man  to  captivate  the  French.  The  beauty  of  his  person, 
the  grace  of  his  manner,  his  consummate  taste  in  all  things,  the 
exceeding  variety  and  sparkling  vivacity  of  his  conversation, 
enchanted  them.  In  later  life  he  has  grown  more  reserved 
and  profound,  even  in  habitual  intercourse ;  and  attention  is 
now  fixed  to  the  solidity  of  the  diamond,  as  at  that  time  one 
was  too  dazzled  to  think  of  anything  but  its  brilliancy. 

While  Bolingbroke  was  receiving  visits  of  state,  I  busied 
myself  in  inquiring  after  a  certain  Madame  de  Balzac.  The 
reader  will  remember  that  the  envelope  of  that  letter  which 
Oswald  had  brought  to  me  at  Devereux  Court  was  signed  by 
the  letters  C.  de  B.  Now,  when  Oswald  disappeared,  after 
that  dreadful  night  to  which  even  now  I  can  scarcely  bring 
myself  to  allude,  these  initials  occurred  to  my  remembrance, 
and  Oswald  having  said  they  belonged  to  a  lady  formerly 
intimate  with  my  father,  I  inquired  of  my  mother  if  she 
could  guess  to  what  French  lady  such  initials  would  apply. 
She,  with  an  evident  pang  of  jealousy,  mentioned  a  Madame 
de  Balzac;  and  to  this  lady  I  now  resolved  to  address  myself, 
with  the  faint  hope  of  learning  from  her  some  intelligence 
respecting  Oswald.  It  was  not  difficult  to  find  out  the  abode 
of  one  who  in  her  day  had  played  no  inconsiderable  role  in 
that  'Comedy  of  Errors,' — the  Great  "World.  She  was  still 
living  at  Paris :  what  Frenchwoman  would,  if  she  could  help 
it,  live  anywhere  else?  "There  are  a  hundred  gates,"  said 
the  witty  Madame  de  Choisi  to  me,  "which  lead  into  Paris, 
but  only  tAvo  roads  out  of  it, — the  convent,  or  (odious  word!) 
the  grave." 


256  DEVEREUX. 

I  hastened  to  Madame  Balzac's  hotel.  I  was  ushered 
through  three  magnificent  apartments  into  one  which  to  my 
eyes  seemed  to  contain  a  throne :  upon  a  nearer  insj)ection  I 
discovered  it  was  a  bed.  Upon  a  large  chair,  by  a  very  bad 
fire  —  it  was  in  the  month  of  March  —  sat  a  tall,  handsome 
woman,  excessively  painted,  and  dressed  in  a  manner  which 
to  my  taste,  accustomed  to  English  finery,  seemed  singu- 
larly plain.  I  had  sent  in  the  morning  to  request  permission 
to  wait  on  her,  so  that  she  was  prepared  for  my  visit.  She 
rose,  offered  me  her  cheek,  kissed  mine,  shed  several  tears, 
and  in  short  testified  a  great  deal  of  kindness  towards  me. 
Old  ladies  who  have  flirted  with  our  fathers  always  seem  to 
claim  a  sort  of  property  in  the  sons ! 

Before  she  resumed  her  seat  she  held  me  out  at  arm's  length. 

"You  have  a  family  likeness  to  your  brave  father,"  said 
she,  with  a  little  disappointment;  "but  —  " 

"Madame  de  Balzac  would  add,"  interrupted  I,  filling  up 
the  sentence  which  I  saw  her  bienveillance  had  made  her 
break  off,  "Madame  de  Balzac  would  add  that  I  am  not  so 
good-looking.  It  is  true :  the  likeness  is  transmitted  to  me 
within  rather  than  without;  and  if  I  have  not  my  father's 
l^rivilege  to  be  admired,  I  have  at  least  his  capacities  to  ad- 
mire," and  I  bowed. 

Madame  de  Balzac  took  three  large  pinches  of  snuff.  "  That 
is  very  well  said,"  said  she,  gravely:  "very  well  indeed! 
not  at  all  like  your  father,  though,  who  never  paid  a 
compliment  in  his  life.  Your  clothes,  by  the  by,  are  in 
exquisite  taste :  I  had  no  idea  that  English  people  had  arrived 
at  such  perfection  in  the  fine  arts.  Your  face  is  a  little  too 
long!  You  admire  Eacine,  of  course?  How  do  you  like 
Paris?" 

All  this  was  not  said  gayly  or  quickly :  Madame  de  Balzac 
was  by  no  means  a  gay  or  a  quick  person.  She  belonged  to  a 
peculiar  school  of  Frenchwomen,  who  affected  a  little  lan- 
guor, a  great  deal  of  stiffness,  an  indifference  to  forms  when 
forms  were  to  be  used  by  themselves,  and  an  unrelaxing  de- 
mand of  forms  when  forms  were  to  be  observed  to  them  by 
others.     Added  to  this,  they  talked  plainly  upon  all  matters, 


DEVEREUX.  257 

without  ever  entering  upon  sentiment.  This  was  the  school 
she  belonged  to ;  but  she  possessed  the  traits  of  the  individual 
as  well  as  of  the  species.  She  was  keen,  ambitious,  worldly, 
not  unaffectionate  nor  unkind;  very  proud,  a  little  of  the 
devotee,  —  because  it  was  the  fashion  to  be  so,  —  an  enthusi- 
astic admirer  of  military  glory,  and  a  most  prying,  search- 
ing, intriguing  schemer  of  politics  without  the  slightest 
talent  for  the  science. 

"  Like  Paris ! "  said  I,  answering  only  the  last  question, 
and  that  not  with  the  most  scrupulous  regard  to  truth.  **  Can 
Madame  de  Balzac  think  of  Paris,  and  not  conceive  the  trans- 
port which  must  inspire  a  person  entering  it  for  the  first  time? 
But  I  had  something  more  endearing  than  a  stranger's  inter- 
est to  attach  me  to  it:  I  longed  to  express  to  my  father's 
friend  my  gratitude  for  the  interest  which  I  venture  to  be- 
lieve she  on  one  occasion  manifested  towards  me." 

"  Ah !  you  mean  my  caution  to  you  against  that  terrible  De 
Montreuil.     Yes,  I  trust  I  was  of  service  to  you  there." 

And  Madame  de  Balzac  then  proceeded  to  favour  me  with 
the  whole  history  of  the  manner  in  which  she  had  obtained 
the  letter  she  had  sent  me,  accompanied  by  a  thousand  anathe- 
mas against  those  atroces  Jesuites  and  a  thousand  eulogies  on 
her  own  genius  and  virtues.  I  brought  her  from  this  subject 
so  interesting  to  herself,  as  soon  as  decorum  would  allow  me ; 
and  I  then  made  inquiry  if  she  knew  aught  of  Oswald  or 
could  suggest  any  mode  of  obtaining  intelligence  respecting 
him.  Madame  de  Balzac  hated  plain,  blunt,  blank  questions, 
and  she  always  travelled  through  a  wilderness  of  parentheses 
before  she  answered  them.  But  at  last  I  did  ascertain  her 
answer,  and  found  it  utterly  unsatisfactory.  She  had  never 
seen  nor  heard  anything  of  Oswald  since  he  had  left  her 
charged  with  her  commission  to  me.  I  then  questioned  her 
respecting  the  character  of  the  man,  and  found  Mr.  Marie 
Oswald  had  little  to  plume  himself  upon  in  that  respect.  He 
seemed,  however,  from  her  account  of  him,  to  be  more  a  rogue 
than  a  villain;  and  from  two  or  three  stories  of  his  cowardice, 
which  jNIadame  de  Balzac  related,  he  appeared  to  me  utterly 
incapable  of  a  design  so  daring  and  systematic   as   that  of 

17 


258  DEVEREUX. 

■which  it  pleased  all  persons  who  troubled  themselves  about 
my  affairs  to  suspect  him. 

Finding  at  last  that  no  further  information  was  to  be  gained 
on  this  point,  I  turned  the  conversation  to  Montreuil.  I 
found,  from  Madame  de  Balzac's  very  abuse  of  him,  that  he 
enjoyed  a  great  reputation  in  the  country  and  a  great  favour 
at  court.  He  had  been  early  befriended  by  Father  la  Chaise, 
and  he  was  now  especially  trusted  and  esteemed  by  the  suc- 
cessor of  that  Jesuit  Le  Tellier, —  Le  Tellier,  that  rigid  and 
bigoted  servant  of  Loyola,  the  sovereign  of  the  king  himself, 
the  destroyer  of  the  Port  Eoyal,  and  the  mock  and  terror  of 
the  bedevilled  and  persecuted  Jansenists.  Besides  this,  I 
learned  what  has  been  before  pretty  clearly  evident ;  namely, 
that  Montreuil  was  greatly  in  the  confidence  of  the  Chevalier, 
and  that  he  was  supposed  already  to  have  rendered  essential 
service  to  the  Stuart  cause.  His  reputation  had  increased 
with  every  year,  and  was  as  great  for  private  sanctity  as  for 
political  talent. 

When  this  information,  given  in  a  very  different  spirit  from 
that  in  which  I  retail  it,  was  over,  Madame  de  Balzac  ob- 
served, "Doubtless  you  will  obtain  a  private  audience  with 
the  king?" 

"Is  it  possible,  in  his  present  age  and  infirmities?" 

"It  ought  to  be,  to  the  son  of  the  brave  Marshal  Devereux." 

"I  shall  be  happy  to  receive  Madame's  instructions  how  to 
obtain  the  honour :  her  name  would,  I  feel,  be  a  greater  pass- 
port to  the  royal  presence  than  that  of  a  deceased  soldier; 
and  Venus's  cestus  may  obtain  that  grace  which  would  never 
be  accorded  to  the  truncheon  of  Mars !  " 

Was  there  ever  so  natural  and  so  easy  a  compliment?  j\Iy 
Venus  of  fifty  smiled. 

"  You  are  mistaken,  Count, "  said  she ;  "  I  have  no  interest 
at  court:  the  Jesuits  forbid  that  to  a  Jansenist;  but  I  will 
cpeak  this  very  day  to  the  Bishop  of  Frcjus ;  he  is  related  to 
me,  and  will  obtain  so  slight  a  boon  for  you  with  ease.  He 
has  just  left  his  bishopric ;  you  know  how  he  hated  it.  Noth- 
ing could  be  pleasanter  than  his  signing  himself,  in  a  letter 
to  Cardinal  Quirini,  'Fleuri,  Eveque  de  Frejus  par  I'indigna- 


DEVEREUX.  259 

tion  divine.'  The  King  does  not  like  him  much;  but  he  is  a 
good  man  on  the  whole,  though  Jesuitical;  he  shall  introduce 
you." 

I  expressed  my  gratitude  for  the  favour,  and  hinted  that 
possibly  the  relations  of  my  father's  first  wife,  the  haughty 
and  ancient  house  of  La  Tremouille,  might  save  the  Bishop 
of  Frejus  from  the  pain  of  exerting  himself  on  my  behalf. 

"  You  are  very  much  mistaken, "  answered  ^ladame  de  Bal- 
zac: "priests  point  the  road  to  court  as  well  as  to  Heaven; 
and  warriors  and  nobles  have  as  little  to  do  with  the  former 
as  they  have  with  the  latter,  the  unlucky  Due  de  Villars  only 
excepted,  —  a  man  whose  ill  fortune  is  enough  to  destroy  all 
the  laurels  of  France.  Ma  foi !  I  believe  the  poor  Duke 
might  rival  in  luck  that  Italian  poet  who  said,  in  a  fit  of  de- 
spair, that  if  he  had  been  bred  a  hatter,  men  would  have  been 
born  without  heads." 

And  Madame  de  Balzac  chuckled  over  this  joke,  till,  seeing 
that  no  further  news  was  to  be  gleaned  from  her,  I  made  my 
adieu  and  my  departure. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  kindness  manifested  towards  me 
by  my  father's  early  connections.  The  circumstance  of  my 
accompanying  Bolingbroke,  joined  to  my  age,  and  an  address 
which,  if  not  animated  nor  gay,  had  not  been  acquired  with- 
out some  youthful  cultivation  of  the  graces,  gave  me  a  sort  of 
eclat  as  well  as  consideration.  And  Bolingbroke,  who  was 
only  jealous  of  superiors  in  power,  and  who  had  no  equals 
in  anything  else,  added  greatly  to  my  reputation  by  his 
panegyrics. 

Every  one  sought  me;  and  the  attention  of  society  at  Paris 
would,  to  most,  be  worth  a  little  trouble  to  repay.  Perhaps, 
if  I  had  liked  it,  I  might  have  been  the  rage ;  but  that  vanity 
was  over.  I  contented  myself  with  being  admitted  into  soci- 
ety as  an  observer,  without  a  single  wish  to  become  the  ob- 
served. "When  one  has  once  outlived  the  ambition  of  fashion 
I  know  not  a  greater  affliction  than  an  over-attention;  and 
the  Spectator  did  just  what  I  should  have  done  in  a  similar 
case,  when  he  left  his  lodgings  "because  he  was  asked  every 
morning  how  he  had  slept."     In  the  immediate  vicinity  of 


260  DEVEREUX. 

the  court,  the  King's  devotion,  age,  and  misfortunes  threw  a 
damp  over  society;  but  there  were  still  some  sparkling  cir- 
cles, who  put  the  King  out  of  the  mode,  and  declared  that  the 
defeats  of  his  generals  made  capital  subjects  for  epigrams. 
What  a  delicate  and  subtle  air  did  hang  over  those  soirees, 
where  all  that  were  bright  and  lovely,  and  noble  and  gay,  and 
witty  and  wise,  were  assembled  in  one  brilliant  cluster!  Im- 
perfect as  my  rehearsals  must  be,  I  think  the  few  pages  I 
shall  devote  to  a  description  of  these  glittering  conversations 
must  still  retain  something  of  that  original  piquancy  which 
the  soirees  of  no  other  capital  could  rival  or  appreciate. 

One  morning,  about  a  week  after  my  interview  with 
Madame  de  Balzac,  I  received  a  note  from  her  requesting  me 
to  visit  her  that  day,   and  appointing  the  hour. 

Accordingly  I  repaired  to  the  house  of  the  fair  politician. 
I  found  her  with  a  man  in  a  clerical  garb,  and  of  a  benevolent 
and  prepossessing  countenance.  She  introduced  him  to  me 
as  the  Bishop  of  Frejus ;  and  he  received  me  with  an  air  very 
uncommon  to  his  countrymen,  namely,  with  3  an  ease  that 
seemed  to  result  from  real  good-nature,  rather  than  artificial 
grace. 

"I  shall  feel,"  said  he,  quietly,  and  without  the  least  ap- 
pearance of  paying  a  compliment,  "  very  glad  to  mention  your 
wish  to  his  Majesty;  and  I  have  not  the  least  doubt  but  that 
he  will  admit  to  his  presence  one  who  has  such  hereditary 
claims  on  his  notice.  Madame  de  Maintenon,  by  the  way, 
has  charged  me  to  present  you  to  her  whenever  you  will  give 
me  the  opportunity.  She  knew  your  admirable  mother  well, 
and  for  her  sake  wishes  once  to  see  you.  You  know  perhaps. 
Monsieur,  that  the  extreme  retirement  of  her  life  renders 
this  message  from  Madame  de  Maintenon  an  unusual  and  rare 
honour." 

I  expressed  my  thanks ;  the  Bishop  received  them  with  a 
paternal  rather  than  a  courtier-like  air,  and  appointed  a  day 
for  me  to  attend  him  to  the  palace.  We  then  conversed  a 
short  time  upon  indifferent  matters,  which  I  observed  the  good 
Bishop  took  especial  pains  to  preserve  clear  from  French  poli- 
tics.    He  asked  me,  however,  two  or  three  questions  about 


DEVEREUX.  261 

llie  state  of  parties  in  England, —  about  finance  and  the  na- 
tional debt,  about  Ormond  and  Oxford;  and  appeared  to  give 
the  most  close  attention  to  my  replies.  He  smiled  once  or 
twice,  when  his  relation,  Madame  de  Ealzac,  broke  out  into 
sarcasms  against  the  Jesuits,  which  had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  subjects  in  question. 

"Ah,  ma  chere  cotcsine,"  said  he;  "you  flatter  me  by  show- 
ing that  you  like  me  not  as  the  politician,  but  the  private  re- 
lation,—  not  as  the  Bishop  of  Frejus,  but  as  Andre  de  Fleuri," 

Madame  de  Balzac  smiled,  and  answered  by  a  compliment. 
She  was  a  politician  for  the  kingdom,  it  is  true,  but  she  was 
also  a  politician  for  herself.  She  was  far  from  exclaiming, 
with  Pindar,  "  Thy  business,  0  my  city,  I  prefer  willingly  to 
my  own."  Ah,  there  is  a  nice  distinction  between  politics 
and  policy,  and  Madame  de  Balzac  knew  it.  The  distinction 
is  this.  Politics  is  the  art  of  being  wise  for  others :  policy 
is  the  art  of  being  wise  for  one's  self. 

From  Madame  de  Balzac's  I  went  to  Bolingbroke.  "  I  have 
just  been  offered  the  place  of  Secretary  of  State  by  the  Eng- 
lish king  on  this  side  of  the  water,"  said  he;  "I  do  not,  how- 
ever, yet  like  to  commit  myself  so  fully.  And,  indeed,  I  am 
not  unwilling  to  have  a  little  relaxation  of  pleasure,  after  all 
these  dull  and  dusty  travails  of  state.  What  say  you  to 
Boulainvilliers  to-night?   you  are  asked?" 

"Yes!  all  the  wits  are  to  be  there,  —  Anthony  Hamilton, 
and  Fontenelle,  young  Arouet,  Chaulieu,  that  charming  old 
man.  Let  us  go,  and  polish  away  the  wrinkles  of  our  hearts. 
What  cosmetics  are  to  the  face  wit  is  to  the  temper;  and, 
after  all,  there  is  no  wisdom  like  that  which  teaches  us  to 
forget." 

"Come  then,"  said  Bolingbroke,  rising,  "we  will  lock  up 
these  papers,  and  take  a  melancholy  drive,  in  order  that  we 
may  enjoy  mirth  the  better  by  and  by. " 


262  DEVEREUX. 


CHAPTER   V. 

A   MEETING   OF   WITS. CONVERSATION     GONE    OUT    TO    SUPPER 

IN    HER    DRESS    OF    VELVET    AND    JEWELS. 

BouLAiNviLLiERS !  CoBite  de  St.  Saire!  What  will  our 
great-grandchildren  think  of  that  name?  Fame  is  indeed  a 
riddle!  At  the  time  I  refer  to,  wit,  learning,  grace  —  all 
things  that  charm  and  enlighten  —  were  supposed  to  centre  in 
one  word, —  BoulainviUie7's  !  The  good  Count  had  many  ri- 
vals, it  is  true,  but  he  had  that  exquisite  tact  peculiar  to  his 
countrymen,  of  making  the  very  reputations  of  those  rivals 
contribute  to  his  own.  And  while  he  assembled  them  around 
him,  the  lustre  of  their  bons  mots,  though  it  emanated  from 
themselves,  was  reflected  upon  him. 

It  was  a  pleasant  though  not  a  costly  apartment  in  which 
we  found  our  host.  The  room  was  sufficiently  full  of  j)eople 
to  allow  scope  and  variety  to  one  group  of  talkers,  without 
being  full  enough  to  permit  those  little  knots  and  coteries 
which  are  the  destruction  of  literary  society.  An  old  man 
of  about  seventy,  of  a  sharp,  shrewd,  yet  polished  and  courtly 
expression  of  countenance,  of  a  great  gayety  of  manner,  which 
was  now  and  then  rather  displeasingly  contrasted  by  an 
abrupt  affectation  of  dignity,  that,  however,  rarely  lasted 
above  a  minute,  and  never  withstood  the  shock  of  a  bon  mot, 
was  the  first  person  who  accosted  us.  This  old  man  was  the 
wreck  of  the  once  celebrated  Anthony  Count  Hamilton ! 

"Well,  my  Lord,"  said  he  to  Bolingbroke,  "how  do  you 
like  the  weather  at  Paris?  It  is  a  little  better  than  the  merci- 
less air  of  London;  is  it  not?  'Slife!  —  even  in  June  one 
could  not  go  open  breasted  in  those  regions  of  cold  and  ca- 
tarrh,—  a  very  great  misfortune,  let  me  tell  you,  my  Lord,  if 
one's  cambric  happened  to  be  of  a  very  delicate  and  brilliant 
texture,  and  one  wished  to  penetrate  the  inward  folds  of  a 


DEVEREUX.  268 

lady's  heart,  by  developing  to  the  best  advantage  the  exterior 
folds  that  covered  his  own." 

"It  is  the  first  time,"  answered  Bolingbroke,  "that  I  ever 
heard  so  accomplished  a  courtier  as  Count  Hamilton  repine, 
with  sincerity,  that  he  could  not  bare  his  bosom  to  inspection." 

"  Ah ! "  cried  Boulainvilliers,  "  but  vanity  makes  a  man 
show  much  that  discretion  would  conceal." 

^^ All  diable  with,  your  discretion!"  said  Hamilton,  "'tis  a 
Tiilgar  virtue.  Vanity  is  a  truly  aristocratic  quality,  and 
every  way  fitted  to  a  gentleman.  Should  I  ever  have  been 
renowned  for  my  exquisite  lace  and  web-like  cambric,  if  I 
had  not  been  vain?  Never,  mon  cher!  I  should  have  gone 
into  a  convent  and  worn  sackcloth,  and  from  Count  Antoine  I 
should  have  thickened  into  Saint  Anthomj." 

"Nay,"  cried  Lord  Bolingbroke,  "there  is  as  much  scope 
for  vanity  in  sackcloth  as  there  is  in  cambric ;  for  vanity  is 
like  the  Irish  ogling  master  in  the  "Spectator,"  and  if  it 
teaches  the  play-house  to  ogle  by  candle-light,  it  also  teaches 
the  church  to  ogle  by  day!  But,  pardon  me.  Monsieur  Chau- 
lieu,  how  well  you  look!  I  see  that  the  myrtle  sheds  its 
verdure,  not  only  over  your  poetry,  but  the  poet.  And  it  is 
right  that,  to  the  modern  Anacreon,  who  has  bequeathed  to 
Time  a  treasure  it  will  never  forego.  Time  itself  should  be 
gentle  in  return." 

"Milord,"  answered  Chaulieu,  an  old  man  who,  though  con- 
siderably past  seventy,  was  animated,  in  appearance  and 
manner,  with  a  vivacity  and  life  that  would  have  done  honour 
to  a  youth, —  "Milord,  it  was  beautifully  said  by  the  Emperor 
Julian  that  Justice  retained  the  Graces  in  her  vestibule.  I 
see,  now,  that  he  should  have  substituted  the  word  Wisdom 
for  that  of  Justice." 

"  Come,"  cried  Anthony  Hamilton,  "  this  will  never  do :  com- 
pliments are  the  dullest  things  imaginable.  For  Heaven's 
sake,  let  us  leave  panegyric  to  blockheads,  and  say  something 
bitter  to  one  another,  or  we  shall  die  of  ennui." 

"Eight,"  said  Boulainvilliers;  "let  us  pick  out  some  poor 
devil  to  begin  with.     Absent  or  present?  —  Decide  which." 

"Oh,  absent,"  cried  Chaulieu,  "  't  is  a  thousand  times  more 


264  DEVEREUX. 

piquant  to  slander  than  to  rally!  Let  us  commence  with  his 
Majesty :  Count  Devereux,  have  you  seen  Madame  Maintenon 
and  her  devout  infant  since  your  arrival?" 

"No!  the  priest  must  be  petitioned  before  the  miracle  is 
made  public." 

"What!"  cried  Chaulieu,  "would  you  insinuate  that  his 
Majesty's  piety  is  really  nothing  less  than  a  miracle?" 

"Impossible!"  said  Boulainvilliers,  gravely, —  "piety  is  as 
natural  to  kings  as  flattery  to  their  courtiers :  are  we  not  told 
that  they  are  made  in  God's  own  image?" 

"  If  that  were  true, "  said  Count  Hamilton,  somewhat  pro- 
fanely,—  "if  that  were  true,  I  should  no  longer  deny  the 
impossibility  of  Atheism !  " 

"  Fie,  Count  Hamilton, "  said  an  old  gentleman,  in  whom  I 
recognized  the  great  Huet,  "fie:  wit  should  beware  how  it 
uses  wings;  its  province  is  earth,  not  Heaven," 

"Nobody  can  better  tell  what  wit  is  not  than  the  learned 
Abb^  Huet !  "  answered  Hamilton,  with  a  mock  air  of  respect. 

"  Pshaw ! "  cried  Chaulieu,  "  I  thought  when  we  once  gave 
the  rein  to  satire  it  would  carry  us  pele-mele  against  one  an- 
other. But,  in  order  to  sweeten  that  drop  of  lemon-juice  for 
you,  my  dear  Huet,  let  me  turn  to  Milord  Bolingbroke,  and 
ask  him  whether  England  can  produce  a  scholar  equal  to 
Peter  Huet,  who  in  twenty  years  wrote  notes  to  sixty-two 
volumes  of  Classics,^  for  the  sake  of  a  prince  who  never  read 
a  line  in  one  of  them?  " 

"We  have  some  scholars,"  answered  Bolingbroke;  "but  we 
certainly  have  no  Huet.  It  is  strange  enough,  but  learning 
seems  to  me  like  a  circle :  it  grows  weaker  the  more  it  spreads. 
We  now  see  many  people  capable  of  reading  commentaries, 
but  very  few  indeed  capable  of  writing  them." 

"True,"  answered  Huet;  and  in  his  reply  he  introduced 
the  celebrated  illustration  which  is  at  this  day  mentioned 
among  his  most  felicitous  bons  mots.  "  Scholarship,  formerly 
the  most  difficult  and  unaided  enterprise  of  Genius,  has  now 
been  made,  by  the  very  toils  of  the  first  mariners,  but  an  easy 
and  commonplace  voyage  of  leisure.  But  who  would  compare 
1  The  Delphin  Classics. 


DEVEREUX.  266 

the  great  men,  whose  very  difficulties  not  only  proved  their 
ardour,  but  brought  them  the  patience  and  the  courage  which 
alone  are  the  parents  of  a  genuine  triumph,  to  the  indolent 
loiterers  of  the  present  day,  who,  having  little  of  difficulty  to 
conquer,  have  nothing  of  glory  to  attain?  For  my  part,  there 
seems  to  me  the  same  difference  between  a  scholar  of  our  days 
and  one  of  the  past  as  there  is  between  Christopher  Colum- 
bus and  the  master  of  a  packet-boat  from  Calais  to  Dover ! " 

"But,"  cried  Anthony  Hamilton,  taking  a  pinch  of  snuff 
with  the  air  of  a  man  about  to  utter  a  witty  thing,  "  but  what 
have  we  —  we  spirits  of  the  world,  not  imps  of  the  closet, " 
and  he  glanced  at  Huet  —  "to  do  with  scholarship?  All  the 
waters  of  Castaly,  which  we  waxat  to  pour  into  our  brain,  are 
such  as  Avill  flow  the  readiest  to  our  tongue." 

"In  short,  then,"  said  I,  "you  would  assert  that  all  a 
friend  cares  for  in  one's  head  is  the  quantity  of  talk  in  it?" 

"Precisely,  my  dear  Count,"  said  Hamilton,  seriously; 
"  and  to  that  maxim  I  will  add  another  applicable  to  the  op- 
posite sex.  All  that  a  mistress  cares  for  in  one's  heart  is  the 
quantity  of  love  in  it." 

"What!  are  generosity,  courage,  honour,  to  go  for  nothing 
with  our  mistress,  then?"  cried  Chaulieu. 

"Xo:  for  she  will  believe,  if  you  are  a  passionate  lover, 
that  you  have  all  those  virtues;  and  if  not,  she  will  never 
believe  that  you  have  one." 

"  Ah !  it  was  a  pretty  court  of  love  in  which  the  friend  and 
biographer  of  Count  Grammont  learned  the  art ! "  said 
Bolingbroke. 

"We  believed  so  at  the  time,  my  Lord;  but  there  are  as 
many  changes  in  the  fashion  of  making  love  as  there  are  in 
that  of  making  dresses.  Honour  me.  Count  Devereux,  by 
using  my  snuff-box  and  then  looking  at  the  lid." 

"It  is  the  picture  of  Charles  the  Second  which  adorns  it; 
is  it  not?  " 

"'No,  Count  Devereux,  it  is  the  diamonds  which  adorn  it. 
His  Majesty's  face  I  thought  very  beautiful  while  he  was 
living;  but  now,  on  my  conscience,  I  consider  it  the  ugliest 
phiz  I  ever  beheld.     But  I  directed  your  notice  to  the  picture 


266  DEVEREUX. 

because  we  were  talking  of  love;  and  Old  Eowley  believed 
that  he  could  make  it  better  than  any  one  else.  All  his  cour- 
tiers had  the  same  opinion  of  themselves ;  and  I  dare  say  the 
beaux  (jargons  of  Queen  Anne's  reign  would  say  that  not  one 
of  King  Charley's  gang  knew  what  love  was.  Oh!  'tis  a 
strange  circle  of  revolutions,  that  love!  Like  the  earth,  it 
always  changes,  and  yet  always  has  the  same  materials. " 

^^V amour,  V amour,  toujours  V amour,  with  Count  Anthony 
Hamilton!"  said  Boulainvilliers.  "He  is  always  on  that 
subject;  and,  sacre  bleu!  when  he  was  younger,  I  am  told  he 
was  like  Cacus,  the  son  of  Vulcan,  and  breathed  nothing  but 
flames." 

"You  flatter  me,"  said  Hamilton.  " Solve  me  now  a  knotty 
riddle,  my  Lord  Bolingbroke.  Why  does  a  young  man  think 
it  the  greatest  compliment  to  be  thought  wise,  while  an  old 
man  thinks  it  the  greatest  compliment  to  be  told  he  has  been 
foolish?" 

"Is  love  foolish  then?  "  said  Lord  Bolingbroke. 

"  Can  you  doubt  it?  "  answered  Hamilton ;  "  it  makes  a  man 
think  more  of  another  than  himself!  I  know  not  a  greater 
proof  of  folly ! " 

"Ah!  mon  ahnable  ami,"  cried  Chaulieu;  "you  are  the 
wickedest  witty  person  I  know.  I  cannot  help  loving  your 
language,  while   I  hate  your  sentiments." 

"  My  language  is  my  own ;  my  sentiments  are  those  of  all 
men,"  answered  Hamilton:  "but  are  we  not,  by  the  by,  to 
have  young  Arouet  here  to-night?  What  a  charming  person 
he  is!" 

"Yes,"  said  Boulainvilliers.  "He  said  he  should  be  late; 
and  I  expect  Fontenelle,  too,  but  he  will  not  come  before  sup- 
per. I  found  Fontenelle  this  morning  conversing  with  my 
cook  on  the  best  manner  of  dressing  asparagus.  I  asked  him 
the  other  day  what  writer,  ancient  or  modern,  had  ever  given 
him  the  most  sensible  pleasure?  After  a  little  pause,  the  ex- 
cellent old  man  said,  'Daphnus.'  'Daphnus! '  repeated  I,  'who 
the  devil  is  he? '  'Why,'  answered  Fontenelle,  with  tears  of 
gratitude  in  his  benevolent  eyes,  'I  had  some  hypochondriacal 
ideas  that  suppers  were  unwholesome ;  and  Daphnus  is  an  an- 


DEVEREUX.  267 

cient  physician,  who  asserts  the  contrary;  and  declares, — 
think,  my  friend,  what  a  charming  theory! — that  the  moon 
is  a  great  assistant  of  the  digestion! '  " 

"  Ha  I  ha !  ha !  "  laughed  the  Ahh6  de  Chaulieu.  "  How  like 
Fontenelle !  what  an  anomalous  creature  't  is !  He  has  the 
most  kindness  and  the  least  feeling  of  any  man  I  ever  knew. 
Let  Hamilton  lind  a  pithier  description  for  him  if  he  can !  " 

Whatever  reply  the  friend  of  the  jjreux  Grammont  might 
have  made  was  prevented  by  the  entrance  of  a  young  man  of 
about  twenty-one. 

In  person  he  was  tall,  slight,  and  very  thin.  There  was  a 
certain  affectation  of  polite  address  in  his  manner  and  mien 
which  did  not  quite  become  him ;  and  though  he  was  received 
by  the  old  wits  with  great  cordiality,  and  on  a  footing  of  per- 
fect equality,  yet  the  inexpressible  air  which  denotes  birth 
was  both  pretended  to  and  wanting.  This,  perhaps,  was 
however  owing  to  the  ordinary  inexperience  of  youth;  which, 
if  not  awkwardly  bashful,  is  generally  awkward  in  its  assur- 
ance. Whatever  its  cause,  the  impression  vanished  directly 
he  entered  into  conversation.  I  do  not  think  I  ever  encoun- 
tered a  man  so  brilliantly,  yet  so  easily,  wntty.  He  had  but 
little  of  the  studied  allusion,  the  antithetical  point,  the  classic 
metaphor,  which  chiefly  characterize  the  wits  of  my  day.  On 
the  contrary,  it  was  an  exceeding  and  naive  simplicity,  which 
gave  such  unrivalled  charm  and  piquancy  to  his  conversation. 
And  while  I  have  not  scrupled  to  stamp  on  my  pages  some 
faint  imitation  of  the  peculiar  dialogue  of  other  eminent  char- 
acters, I  must  confess  myself  utterly  unable  to  convey  the 
smallest  idea  of  his  method  of  making  words  irresistible. 
Contenting  my  efforts,  therefore,  with  describing  his  personal 
appearance, —  interesting,  because  that  of  the  most  striking 
literary  character  it  has  been  my  lot  to  meet,  —  I  shall  omit 
his  share  in  the  remainder  of  the  conversation  I  am  rehears- 
ing, and  beg  the  reader  to  recall  that  passage  in  Tacitus  in 
which  the  great  historian  says  that,  in  the  funeral  of  Junia, 
"the  images  of  Brutus  and  Cassius  outshone  all  the  rest,  from 
the  very  circumstance  of  their  being  the  sole  ones  excluded 
from  the  rite." 


268  DEVEREUX. 

J  The  countenance,  then,  of  Marie  Fran9ois  Arouet  (since  so 
celebrated  under  the  name  of  Voltaire)  was  plain  in  feature, 
but  singularly  striking  in  eifect;  its  vivacity  was  the  very 
perfection  of  what  Steele  once  happily  called  "physiognomi- 
cal eloquence."  His  eyes  were  blue,  fiery  rather  than 
bright,  and  so  restless  that  they  never  dwelt  in  the  same 
place  for  a  moment :  ^  his  mouth  was  at  once  the  worst  and 
the  most  peculiar  feature  of  his  face;  it  betokened  humour, 
it  is  true;  but  it  also  betrayed  malignanc}^,  nor  did  it  ever 
smile  without  sarcasm.  Though  flattering  to  those  present, 
his  words  against  the  absent,  uttered  by  that  bitter  and  curl- 
ing lip,  mingled  with  your  pleasure  at  their  wit  a  little  fear 
at  their  causticity.  I  believe  no  one,  be  he  as  bold,  as  cal- 
lous, or  as  faultless  as  human  nature  can  be,  could  be  one 
hour  with  that  man  and  not  feel  apprehension.  Eidicule,  so 
lavish,  yet  so  true  to  the  mark;  so  wanton,  yet  so  seemingly 
just;  so  bright,  that  while  it  wandered  round  its  target,  in 
apparent  though  terrible  playfulness,  it  burned  into  the  spot, 
and  engraved  there  a  brand,  and  a  token  indelible  and  per- 
petual,—  this  no  man  could  witness,  when  darted  towards  an- 
other, and  feel  safe  for  himself.  The  very  caprice  and  levity 
of  the  jester  seemed  more  perilous,  because  less  to  be  calcu- 
lated upon,  than  a  systematic  principle  of  bitterness  or  satire. 
Bolingbroke  compared  him,  not  unaptly,  to  a  child  who  has 
possessed  himself  of  Jupiter's  bolts,  and  who  makes  use  of 
those  bolts  in  sport  which  a  god  would  only  have  used  in 
wrath. 

Arouet's  forehead  was  not  remarkable  for  height,  but  it  was 
nobly  and  grandly  formed,  and,  contradicting  that  of  the 
mouth,  wore  a  benevolent  expression.  Though  so  young, 
there  was  already  a  wrinkle  on  the  surface  of  the  front,  and 
a  prominence  on  the  eyebrow,  which  showed  that  the  wit  and 

^  The  reader  will  remember  that  this  is  a  description  of  Voltaire  as  a 
very  young  man.  I  do  not  know  anywhere  a  more  impressive,  almost  a 
more  ghastly,  contrast  than  that  which  the  pictures  of  Voltaire,  grown  old, 
present  to  Largilliere's  picture  of  him  at  the  age  of  twenty -four;  and  he 
•was  somewhat  younger  than  twenty-four  at  the  time  of  which  tlie  Count 
now  speaks.  —  Ed. 


DEVEREUX-  269 

the  fancy  of  his  conversation  were,  if  not  regulated,  at  least 
contrasted,  by  more  thoughtful  and  lofty  characteristics  of 
mind.  At  the  time  I  write,  this  man  has  obtained  a  high 
throne  among  the  powers  of  the  lettered  world.  What  he 
may  yet  be,  it  is  in  vain  to  guess :  he  may  be  all  that  is  great 
and  good,  or  —  the  reverse;  but  I  cannot  but  believe  that  his 
career  is  only  begun.  Such  men  are  born  monarchs  of  the 
mind;  they  may  be  benefactors  or  tyrants:  in  either  case, 
they  are  greater  than  the  kings  of  the  physical  empire,  be- 
cause they  defy  armies  and  laugh  at  the  intrigues  of  state. 
From  themselves  only  come  the  balance  of  their  power,  the 
laws  of  their  government,  and  the  boundaries  of  their  realm. 

We  sat  down  to  supper.  "Count  Hamilton,"  said  Boulain- 
villiers,  "are  we  not  a  merry  set  for  such  old  fellows?  Why, 
excepting  Arouet,  IVIilord  Bolingbroke,  and  Count  Devereux, 
there  is  scarcely  one  of  us  under  seventy.  Where  but  at 
Paris  would  you  see  hons  vivans  of  our  age?  Vivent  lajoie, 
la  bagatelle,  V amour  I  " 

^^ Et  le  vin  de  Champagne  !  "  cried  Chaulieu,  filling  his  glass ; 
"but  what  is  there  strange  in  our  merriment?  Philemon,  the 
comic  poet,  laughed  at  ninety-seven.  May  we  all  do  the 
same ! " 

"You  forget,"  cried  Bolingbroke,  "that  Philemon  died  of 
the  laughing." 

"Yes,"  said  Hamilton;  "but  if  I  remember  right,  it  was  at 
seeing  an  ass  eat  figs.  Let  us  vow,  therefore,  never  to  keep 
company  with  asses !  " 

"Bravo,  Count,"  said  Boulainvilliers,  "you  have  put  the 
true  moral  on  the  story.  Let  us  swear  by  the  ghost  of  Phile- 
mon that  we  will  never  laugh  at  an  ass's  jokes,  —  practical  or 
verbal." 

"  Then  we  must  always  be  serious,  except  when  we  are  with 
each  other,"  cried  Chaulieu.  "Oh,  I  would  sooner  take  my 
chance  of  dying  prematurely  at  ninety-seven  than  consent  to 
such  a  vow !  " 

"Fontenelle,"  cried  our  host,  "you  are  melancholy.  What 
is  the  matter?  " 

"I  mourn  for  the  weakness  of  human  nature,"  answered 


270  DEVEREUX. 

Fontenelle,  with  an  air  of  patriarchal  philanthropy.  "  I  told 
your  cook  three  times  about  the  asparagus ;  and  now  —  taste 
it.  I  told  him  not  to  put  too  much  sugar,  and  he  has  put 
none.  Thus  it  is  with  mankind, —  ever  in  extremes,  and  con- 
sequently ever  in  error.  Thus  it  was  that  Luther  said,  so 
felicitously  and  so  truly,  that  the  human  mind  was  like  a 
drunken  peasant  on  horseback:  prop  it  on  one  side,  and  it 
falls  on  the  other." 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!"  cried  Chaulieu.  "  Who  would  have  thought 
one  could  have  found  so  much  morality  in  a  plate  of  aspara- 
gus!    Ta.ste  this  sals ijis." 

"Pray,  Hamilton,"  said  Huet,  "vvhsd,  jeu  de  viot  was  that 
you  made  yesterday  at  Madame  d'Epernonville's  which  gained 
you  such  applause?" 

"Ah,  repeat  it.  Count,"  cried  Boulainvilliers ;  "'twas  the 
most  classical  thing  I  have  heard  for  a  long  time." 

"Why,"  said  Hamilton,  laying  down  his  knife  and  fork, 
and  preparing  himself  by  a  large  draught  of  the  champagne, 
"why,  Madame  d'Epernonville  appeared  without  her  tour ; 
you  know,  Lord  Bolingbroke,  that  tour  is  the  polite  name  for 
false  hair.  'Ah,  sacre!'  cried  her  brother,  courteously,  'ma 
soeur,  que  vous  etes  laide  aujourd'hui:  vous  n'avez  pas  votre 
tour! '  'Voila  pourquoi  elle  n'est  pas  si-belle  (Cybele),' 
answered  I." 

"Excellent!  famous!"  cried  we  all,  except  Huet,  who 
seemed  to  regard  the  punster  with  a  very  disrespectful  eye. 
Hamilton  saw  it.  "  You  do  not  think.  Monsieur  Huet,  that 
there  is  wit  in  t\\es,e.jeux  de  mots:  perhaps  you  do  not  admire 
wit  at  all?" 

"  Yes,  I  admire  wit  as  I  do  the  wind.  When  it  shakes  the 
trees  it  is  tine;  Avhen  it  cools  the  wave  it  is  refreshing;  Avhen 
it  steals  over  flowers  it  is  enchanting:  but  when.  Monsieur 
Hamilton,  it  whistles  through  the  key-hole  it  is  unpleasant." 

"  The  very  worst  illustration  I  ever  heard, "  said  Hamilton, 
coolly.  "Keep  to  your  classics,  my  dear  Abbe.  When  Jupi- 
ter edited  the  work  of  Peter  Huet,  he  did  with  wit  as  Peter 
Huet  did  with  Lucan  when  he  edited  the  classics:  he  was 
afraid  it  might  do  mischief,  and  so  left  it  out  altogether." 


DEVEREUX.  271 

"Let  us  drink!  "  cried  Chaulieu;  "let  us  drink!  "  and  the 
conversation  was  turned  again. 

"  What  is  that  you  say  of  Tacitus,  Huet? "  said  Boulain- 
villiers. 

"That  his  wisdom  arose  from  his  malignancy,"  answered 
Huet.  "He  is  a  perfect  penetrator^  into  human  vices,  but 
knows  nothing  of  human  virtues.  Do  you  think  that  a  good 
man  would  dwell  so  constantly  on  what  is  evil?  Believe  me 
—  no.  A  man  cannot  write  much  and  well  upon  virtue  with- 
out being  virtuous,  nor  enter  minutely  and  profoundly  into 
the  causes  of  vice  without  being  vicious  himself." 

"It  is  true,"  said  Hamilton;  "and  your  remark,  which  af- 
fects to  be  so  deep,  is  but  a  natural  corollary  from  the  hack- 
neyed maxim  that  from  experience  comes  wisdom." 

"But,  for  my  part,"  said  Boulainvilliers,  "I  think  Tacitus 
is  not  so  invariably  the  analyzer  of  vice  as  you  would  make 
him.     Look  at  the  'Agricola '  and  the  'Germania.'  " 

"  Ah !  the  '  Germany, '  above  all  things !  "  cried  Hamilton, 
dropping  a  delicious  morsel  of  sanglier  in  its  way  from  hand 
to  mouth,  in  his  hurry  to  speak.  "  Of  course,  the  historian, 
Boulainvilliers,  advocates  the  'Germany,'  from  its  mention 
of  the  origin  of  the  feudal  system, —  that  incomparable  bundle 
of  excellences,  which  Le  Comte  de  Boulainvilliers  has  de- 
clared to  be  le  chef  cVceuvre  de  V esprit  humain;  and  which  the 
same  gentleman  regrets,  in  the  most  pathetic  terms,  no  longer 
exists  in  order  that  the  seigneur  may  feed  upon  des  gros  mor- 
ceaux  de  hceuf  demi-cru,  may  hang  up  half  his  peasants  j90T/r 
encourager  les  autres,  and  ravish  the  daughters  of  the  defunct 
pour  leur  donner  quelque  consolation.''' 

"Seriously  though,"  said  the  old  Abbe  de  Chaulieu,  with  a 
twinkling  eye,  "  the  last  mentioned  evil,  my  dear  Hamilton, 
was  not  without  a  little  alloy  of  good." 

"Yes,"  said  Hamilton,  "if  it  was  only  the  daughters;  but 
perhaps  the  seigneur  was  not  too  scrupulous  with  regard  to 
the  wives." 

1  A  remark  similar  to  this  the  reader  will  probably  remomlier  in  the 
"Iluctiana,"  and  will,  I  hope,  agree  with  me  in  thinking  it  showy  and 
untme.  —  Ed. 


272  DEVEREUX. 

"  Ah !  shocking,  shocking ! "  cried  Chaulieu,  solemnly. 
"  Adultery  is,  indeed,  an  atrocious  crime.  I  am  sure  I  would 
most  conscientiously  cry  out  with  the  honest  preacher,  'Adul- 
tery, my  children,  is  the  blackest  of  sins.  I  do  declare  that 
I  would  rather  have  ten  virgins  in  love  with  me  than  one 
married  woman ! '  " 

We  all  laughed  at  this  enthusiastic  burst  of  virtue  from  the 
chaste  Chaulieu.  And  Arouet  turned  our  conversation  to- 
wards the  ecclesiastical  dissensions  between  Jesuits  and  Jan- 
senists  that  then  agitated  the  kingdom.  "Those  priests," 
said  Bolingbroke,  "remind  me  of  the  nurses  of  Jupiter:  they 
make  a  great  clamour  in  order  to  drown  the  voice  of  their 
God." 

"Bravissimo!  "  cried  Hamilton.  "Is  it  not  a  pity.  Mes- 
sieurs, that  my  Lord  Bolingbroke  was  not  a  Frenchman? 
He  is  almost  clever  enough  to  be  one." 

"If  he  would  drink  a  little  more,  he  would  be,"  cried  Chau- 
lieu, who  was  now  setting  us  all  a  glorious  example. 

"What  say  you,  Morton?"  exclaimed  Bolingbroke;  "must 
we  not  drink  these  gentlemen  under  the  table  for  the  honour 
of  our  country?  " 

"  A  challenge !  a  challenge !  "  cried  Chaulieu.  "  I  march 
first  to  the  field!" 

"  Conquest  or  death !  "  shouted  Bolingbroke.  And  the  rites 
of  Minerva  were  forsaken  for  those  of  Bacchus. 


CHAPTER  yi. 

A   COURT,    COURTIERS,    AND    A    KING. 

I  THINK  it  was  the  second  day  after  this  "  feast  of  reason  " 
that  Lord  Bolingbroke  deemed  it  advisable  to  retire  to  Lyons 
till  his  plans  of  conduct  were  ripened  into  decision.  We  took 
an  affectionate  leave  of  each  other;  but  before  we  parted,  and 


DEVEREUX.  273 

after  he  had  discussed  his  own  projects  of  ambition,  we  talked 
a  little  upon  mine.  Although  I  was  a  Catholic  and  a  pupil 
of  Montreuil,  although  I  had  fled  from  England  and  had  noth- 
ing to  expect  from  the  House  of  Hanover,  I  was  by  no  means 
favourably  disposed  towards  the  Chevalier  and  his  cause.  I 
wonder  if  this  avowal  will  seem  odd  to  Englishmen  of  the 
next  century!  To  Englishmen  of  the  present  one,  a  Roman 
Catholic  and  a  lover  of  priestcraft  and  tyranny  are  two  words 
for  the  same  thing ;  as  if  we  could  not  murmur  at  tithes  and 
taxes,  insecurity  of  property  or  arbitrary  legislation,  just  as 
sourly  as  any  other  Christian  community.  No!  I  never 
loved  the  cause  of  the  Stuarts, — unfortunate,  and  therefore 
interesting,  as  the  Stuarts  were;  by  a  very  stupid  and  yet 
uneffaceable  confusion  of  ideas,  I  confounded  it  with  the 
cause  of  Montreuil,  and  I  hated  the  latter  enough  to  dislike 
the  former :  I  fancy  all  party  principles  are  formed  much  in 
the  same  manner.  I  frankly  told  Bolingbroke  my  disinclina- 
tion to  the  Chevalier. 

" Between  ourselves  be  it  spoken,"  said  he,  "there  is  but 
little  to  induce  a  wise  man  in  your  circumstances  to  join 
James  the  Third.  I  would  advise  you  rather  to  take  advan- 
tage of  your  father's  reputation  at  the  French  court,  and  enter 
into  the  same  service  he  did.  Things  wear  a  dark  face  in 
England  for  you,  and  a  bright  one  everywhere  else." 

"I  have  already,"  said  I,  "in  my  own  mind,  perceived  and 
weighed  the  advantages  of  entering  into  the  service  of  Louis. 
But  he  is  old :  he  cannot  live  long.  People  now  pay  court  to 
parties,  not  to  the  king.  Which  party,  think  you,  is  the 
best,  —  that  of  Madame  de  Maintenon?" 

"  Nay,  I  think  not ;  she  is  a  cold  friend,  and  never  asks  fa- 
vours of  Louis  for  any  of  her  family.  A  bold  game  might  be 
played  by  attaching  yourself  to  the  Duchesse  d'Orleans  (the 
Duke's  mother).  She  is  at  daggers-drawn  with  Maintenon, 
it  is  true,  and  she  is  a  violent,  haughty,  and  coarse  woman ; 
but  she  has  wit,  talent,  strength  of  mind,  and  will  zealously 
serve  any  person  of  high  birth  who  pays  her  respect.  But 
she  can  do  nothing  for  you  till  the  king's  death,  and  then  only 
on  the  chance  of  her  son's  power.      But  —  let  me  see  —  you 

18 


2T4  DEVEREUX. 

say  Fleuri,  the  Bishop  of  Frejus,  is  to  introduce  you  to 
Madame  de  Maintenon?" 

"  Yes ;  and  has  appointed  the  day  after  to-morrow  for  that 
purpose." 

"Well,  then,  make  close  friends  with  him:  you  will  not 
find  it  difficult;  he  has  a  delightful  address,  and  if  you  get 
"hold  of  his  weak  points  you  may  win  his  confidence.  Mark 
me :  Fleuri  has  no  faux-hrillant,  no  genius,  indeed,  of  very 
prominent  order;  but  he  is  one  of  those  soft  and  smooth 
minds  which,  in  a  crisis  like  the  present,  when  parties  are 
contending  and  princes  wrangling,  always  slip  silently  and 
unobtrusively  into  one  of  the  best  places.  Keep  in  with 
Frejus:  you  cannot  do  wrong  by  it;  although  you  must  re- 
member that  at  present  he  is  in  ill  odour  with  the  king,  and 
you  need  not  go  with  him  twice  to  Versailles.  But,  above  all, 
when  you  are  introduced  to  Louis,  do  not  forget  that  you 
cannot  please  him  better  than  by  appearing  awe-stricken," 

Such  was  Bolingbroke's  parting  advice.  The  Bishop  of 
Frejus  carried  me  with  him  (on  the  morning  we  had  ap- 
pointed) to  Versailles.  What  a  magnificent  work  of  royal 
imagination  is  that  palace !  I  know  not  in  any  epic  a  grander 
idea  than  terming  the  avenues  which  lead  to  it  the  roads  "  to 
Spain,  to  Holland,"  etc.  In  London,  they  would  have  been 
the  roads  to  Chelsea  and  Pentonville ! 

As  we  were  driving  slowly  along  in  the  Bishop's  carriage, 
I  had  ample  time  for  conversation  with  that  personage,  who 
has  since,  as  the  Cardinal  de  Fleuri,  risen  to  so  high  a  pitch 
of  power.  He  certainly  has  in  him  very  little  of  the  great 
man ;  nor  do  I  know  anywhere  so  striking  an  instance  of  this 
truth, —  that  in  that  game  of  honours  which  is  played  at  courts, 
we  obtain  success  less  by  our  talents  than  our  tempers.  He 
laughed,  with  a  graceful  turn  of  hadi^iage,  at  the  political 
peculiarities  of  Madame  de  Balzac ;  and  said  that  it  was  not 
for  the  uppermost  party  to  feel  resentment  at  the  chafings  of 
the  under  one.  Sliding  from  this  topic,  he  then  questioned 
me  as  to  the  gayeties  I  had  witnessed.  I  gave  him  a  descrip- 
tion of  the  party  at  Boulainvilliers'.  He  seemed  much  inter- 
ested in  this,   and  showed  more  shrewdness   than  I  should 


DEVEREUX.  275 

have  given  hini  credit  for  in  discussing  the  various  characters 
of  the  literati  of  the  day.  After  some  general  conversation 
on  works  of  fiction,  he  artfully  glided  into  treating  on  those 
of  statistics  and  politics,  and  I  then  caught  a  sudden  but 
thorough  insight  into  the  depths  of  his  policy.  I  saw  that, 
while  he  affected  to  be  indifferent  to  the  difficulties  and  puz- 
zles of  state,  he  lost  no  opportunity  of  gaining  every  particle 
of  information  respecting  them ;  and  that  he  made  conversa- 
tion, in  which  he  was  skilled,  a  vehicle  for  acquiring  that 
knowledge  which  he  had  not  the  force  of  mind  to  create  from 
his  own  intellect,  or  to  work  out  from  the  written  labours  of 
others.  If  this  made  him  a  superficial  statesman,  it  made 
him  a  prompt  one ;  and  there  was  never  so  lucky  a  minister 
with  so  little  trouble  to  himself.  ^ 

As  we  approached  the  end  of  our  destination,  we  talked  of 
the  King.  On  this  subject  he  was  jealously  cautious.  But  I 
gleaned  from  him,  despite  of  his  sagacity,  that  it  was  high 
time  to  make  all  use  of  one's  acquaintance  with  Madame  de 
Maintenon  that  one  could  be  enabled  to  do ;  and  that  it  was 
so  difficult  to  guess  the  exact  places  in  which  power  would 
rest  after  the  death  of  the  old  King  that  supineness  and  si- 
lence made  at  present  the  most  profound  policy. 

As  we  alighted  from  the  carriage  and  I  first  set  my  foot 
within  the  palace,  I  could  not  but  feel  involuntarily  yet  pow- 
erfully impressed  with  the  sense  of  the  spirit  of  the  place.  I 
was  in  the  precincts  of  that  mighty  court  which  had  gathered 
into  one  dazzling  focus  all  the  rays  of  genius  which  half  a 
century  had  emitted,  —  the  court  at  which  time  had  passed  at 
once  from  the  morn  of  civilization  into  its  full  noon  and  glory, 
—  the  court  of  Conde  and  Turenne,  of  Villars  and  of  Tour- 
ville, — the  court  where,  over  the  wit  of  Grammont,  the  pro- 
fusion of  Fouquet,  the  fatal  genius  of  Louvois  (fatal  to 
humanity  and  to  France),  Love,  real  Love,  had  not  disdained 
to  shed  its  pathos  and  its  truth,  and  to  consecrate  the  hollow 

^  At  his  death  appeared  the  following  punning  epigram:  — 
"  Floruit  sine  fructu ; 
Dejloruit  sine  luctu." 
"  He  flowered  without  fruit,  and  faded  without  regret."  —  Ed. 


276  DEVEREUX. 

pageantries  of  royal  pomp,  with  the  tenderness,  the  beauty, 
and  the  repentance  of  La  Valliere.  Still  over  that  scene 
hung  the  spells  of  a  genius  which,  if  artificial  and  cold, 
was  also  vast,  stately,  and  magnificent, —  a  genius  which  had 
swelled  in  the  rich  music  of  Racine,  which  had  raised  the 
nobler  spirit  and  the  freer  thought  of  Pierre  Corneille,^  which 
had  given  edge  to  the  polished  weapon  of  Boileau,  which 
had  lavished  over  the  bright  page  of  Moliere, —  Moliere,  more 
wonderful  than  all  —  a  knowledge  of  the  humours  and  the 
hearts  of  men,  which  no  dramatist,  save  Shakspeare,  has  sur- 
passed. Within  those  walls  still  glowed,  though  now  waxing 
faint  and  dim,  the  fame  of  that  monarch  who  had  enjoyed, 
at  least  till  his  later  day,  the  fortune  of  Augustus  unsullied 
by  the  crimes  of  Octavius.  Nine  times,  since  the  sun  of  that 
monarch  rose,  had  the  Papal  Chair  received  a  new  occupant ! 
Six  sovereigns  had  reigned  over  the  Ottoman  hordes!  The 
fourth  emperor  since  the  birth  of  the  same  era  bore  sway 
over  Germany!  Five  czars,  from  Michael  Romanoff  to  the 
Great  Peter,  had  held,  over  their  enormous  territory,  the  pre- 
carious tenure  of  their  iron  power!  Six  kings  had  borne  the 
painful  cincture  of  the  English  crown  ;^  two  of  those  kings 
had  been  fugitives  to  that  court;  to  the  son  of  the  last  it  was 
an  asylum  at  that  moment. 

What  wonderful  changes  had  passed  over  the  face  of  Eu- 
rope during  that  single  reign!  In  England  only,  what  a  vast 
leap  in  the  waste  of  events,  from  the  reign  of  the  first  Charles 
to  that  of  George  the  First !  I  still  lingered,  I  still  gazed,  as 
these  thoughts,  linked  to  one  another  in  an  electric  chain, 
flashed  over  me!  I  still  paused  on  the  threshold  of  those 
stately  halls  which  Nature  herself  had  been  conquered  to 
rear!  Where,  through  the  whole  earth,  could  I  find  so  meet 
a  symbol  for  the  character  and  the  name  which  that  sovereign 
would  leave  to  posterity  as  this  palace  itself  afforded?  A 
gorgeous    monument   of   regal    state   raised    from   a   desert; 

1  Rijijidly  speaking,  Corneille  belongs  to  a  period  later  than  that  of  Louis 
XIV.,  though  he  has  been  included  in  the  era  formed  by  that  reign.  —  Ed. 

2  Besides  Cromwell ;  namely,  Charles  I.,  Charles  II.,  James  II ,  William 
and  Mary,  Anne,  George  L 


DEVEREUX.  277 

crowded  alike  with  empty  pageantries  and  illustrious  names ; 
a  prodigy  of  elaborate  artifice,  grand  in  its  whole  effect,  petty 
in  its  small  details;  a  solitary  oblation  to  a  splendid  selfish- 
ness, and  most  remarkable  for  the  revenues  which  it  exhausted 
and  the  poverty  by  which  it  is  surrounded ! 

Fleuri,  with  his  usual  urbanity  —  an  urbanity  that,  on  a 
great  scale,  would  have  been  benevolence  —  had  hitherto  in- 
dulged me  in  my  emotions :  he  now  laid  his  hand  upon  my 
arm,  and  recalled  me  to  myself.  Before  I  could  apologize  for 
my  abstraction,  the  Bishop  was  accosted  by  an  old  man  of 
evident  rank,  but  of  a  countenance  more  strikingly  demon- 
strative of  the  little  cares  of  a  mere  courtier  than  any  I  ever 
beheld.  "What  news.  Monsieur  le  Marquis?"  said  Fleuri, 
smiling. 

"Oh!  the  greatest  imaginable!  the  King  talks  of  receiving 
the  Danish  minister  on  Thursday,  which,  you  know,  is  his 
day  of  domestic  business!  What  can  this  portend?  Be- 
sides," and  here  the  speaker's  voice  lowered  into  a  whisper, 
"  I  am  told  by  the  Due  de  la  Eochefoucauld  that  the  king  in- 
tends, out  of  all  ordinary  rule  and  practice,  to  take  physic 
to-morrow:  I  can't  believe  it;  no,  I  positively  can't;  but 
don't  let  this  go  further!" 

"Heaven  forbid!  "  answered  Fleuri,  bowing,  and  the  cour- 
tier passed  on  to  whisper  his  intelligence  to  others.  "Who  's 
that  gentleman?"  I  asked. 

"The  Marquis  de  Dangeau,"  answered  Fleuri;  "a  noble- 
man of  great  quality,  who  keeps  a  diary  of  all  the  king  says 
and  does.  It  will  perhaps  be  a  posthumous  publication,  and 
will  show  the  world  of  what  importance  nothings  can  be 
made.  I  dare  say,  Count,  you  have  already,  in  England, 
seen  enough  of  a  court  to  know  that  there  are  some  people 
who  are  as  human  echoes,  and  have  no  existence  except  in 
the  noise  occasioned  by  another." 

I  took  care  that  my  answer  should  not  be  a  witticism,  lest 
Fleuri  should  think  I  was  attempting  to  rival  him;  and  so  we 
passed  on  in  an  excellent  humour  with  each  other. 

We  mounted  the  grand  staircase,  and  came  to  an  ante-cham- 
ber, which,  though  costly  and  rich,  Avas  not  remarkably  con- 


278  DEVEREUX. 

spicuous  for  splendour.  Here  the  Bishop  requested  me  to 
wait  for  a  moment.  Accordingly,  I  amused  myself  with 
looking  over  some  engravings  of  different  saints.  Meanwhile, 
my  companion  passed  through  another  door,  and  I  was  alone. 

After  an  absence  of  nearly  ten  minutes,  he  returned. 
"  Madame  de  Maintenon, "  said  he  in  a  whisper,  "  is  but  poorly 
to-day.  However,  she  has  eagerly  consented  to  see  you; 
follow  me ! " 

So  saying,  the  ecclesiastical  courtier  passed  on,  with  myself 
at  his  heels.  We  came  to  the  door  of  a  second  chamber,  at 
which  rieuri  scraped  gently.  We  were  admitted,  and  found 
therein  three  ladies,  one  of  whom  was  reading,  a  second 
laughing,  and  a  third  yawning,  and  entered  into  another 
chamber,  where,  alone  and  seated  by  the  window  in  a  large 
chair,  with  one  foot  on  a  stool,  in  an  attitude  that  rather  re- 
minded me  of  my  mother,  and  which  seems  to  me  a  favourite 
position  with  all  devotees,  we  found  an  old  woman  without 
rouge,  plainly  dressed,  with  spectacles  on  her  nose  and  a  large 
book  on  a  little  table  before  her.  With  a  most  profound 
salutation,  Frejus  approached,  and  taking  me  by  the  hand, 
said, — 

"Will  Madame  suffer  me  to  present  to  her  the  Count 
Devereux?" 

Madame  de  Maintenon,  with  an  air  of  great  meekness  and 
humility,  bowed  a  return  to  the  salutation.  "The  son  of 
Madame  la  Marechale  de  Devereux  will  always  be  most  wel- 
come to  me !  "  Then,  turning  towards  us,  she  pointed  to  two 
stools,  and,  while  we  were  seating  ourselves,  said, — 

"And  how  did  you  leave  my  excellent  friend?" 

"When,  Madame,  I  last  saw  my  mother,  which  is  now 
nearly  a  year  ago,  she  was  in  health,  and  consoling  herself 
for  the  advance  of  years  by  that  tendency  to  wean  the  thoughts 
from  this  world  which  (in  her  own  language)  is  the  divinest 
comfort  of  old  age ! " 

"  Admirable  woman !  "  said  Madame  de  Maintenon,  casting 
down  her  eyes ;  "  such  are  indeed  the  sentiments  in  which  I 
recognize  the  Marechale.  And  how  does  her  beauty  wear? 
Those  golden  locks,  and  blue  eyes,  and  that  snowy  skin,  are 


DEVEREUX.  279 

not  yet,  I  suppose,  -wholly  changed  for  an  adequate  compensa- 
tion of  the  beauties  within?" 

"Time,  Madame,  has  been  gentle  with  her;  and  I  have  often 
thought,  though  never  perhaps  more  strongly  than  at  this 
moment,  that  there  is  in  those  divine  studies,  which  bring 
calm  and  light  to  the  mind,  something  which  preserves  and 
embalms,   as  it  were,  the  beauty  of  the  body." 

A  faint  blush  passed  over  the  face  of  the  devotee.  No,  no, 
— not  even  at  eighty  years  of  age  is  a  compliment  to  a  woman's 
beauty  misplaced!  There  was  a  slight  pause.  I  thought  that 
respect  forbade  me  to  break  it. 

"  His  Majesty, "  said  the  Bishop,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  is 
sensible  that  he  encroaches  a  little,  and  does  it  with  conse- 
quent reverence,   "his  Majesty,   I  hope,   is  well?" 

"  God  be  thanked,  yes,  as  well  as  we  can  expect.  It  is  now 
nearly  the  hour  in  which  his  Majesty  awaits  your  personal 
inquiries." 

Fleuri  bowed  as  he  answered, — 

"The  King,  then,  will  receive  us  to-day?  My  young  com- 
panion is  very  desirous  to  see  the  greatest  monarch,  and,  con- 
sequently, the  greatest  man,  of  the  age." 

"The  desire  is  natural,"  said  Madame  de  Maintenon;  and 
then,  turning  to  me,  she  asked  if  I  had  yet  seen  King  James 
the  Third. 

I  took  care,  in  my  answer,  to  express  that  even  if  I  had  re- 
solved to  make  that  stay  in  Paris  which  allowed  me  to  pay 
my  respects  to  him  at  all,  I  should  have  deemed  that  both 
duty  and  inclination  led  me,  in  the  first  instance,  to  offer  my 
homage  to  one  who  was  both  the  benefactor  of  my  father  and 
the  monarch  whose  realms  afforded  me  protection. 

"  You  have  not,  then, "  said  Madame  de  Maintenon,  "  decided 
on  the  length  of  your  stay  in  France  ?  " 

"No,"  said  I, — and  my  answer  was  regulated  by  my  desire 
to  see  how  far  I  might  rely  on  the  services  of  one  who  ex- 
pressed herself  so  warm  a  friend  of  that  excellent  woman, 
Madame  la  Marochale, —  "no,  Madame.  France  is  the  country 
of  my  birth,  if  England  is  that  of  my  parentage ;  and  could  I 
hope  for  some  portion  of  that  royal  favour  which  my  father 


280  DEVEREUX. 

enjoyed,  I  would  rather  claim  it  as  the  home  of  my  hopes 
than  the  refuge  of  my  exile.  But "  —  and  I  stopped  short 
purposely. 

The  old  lady  looked  at  me  very  earnestly  through  her  spec- 
tacles for  one  moment,  and  then,  hemming  twice  with  a  little 
embarrassment,  again  remarked  to  the  Bishop  that  the  time 
for  seeing  the  King  was  nearly  arrived.  Fleuri,  whose  policy 
at  that  period  was  very  like  that  of  the  concealed  Queen,  and 
who  was,  besides,  far  from  desirous  of  introducing  any  new 
claimants  on  Madame  de  Maintenon's  official  favour,  though 
he  might  not  object  to  introduce  them  to  a  private  friend,  was 
not  slow  in  taking  the  hint.  He  rose,  and  I  was  forced  to 
follow  his  example. 

Madame  de  Maintenon  thought  she  might  safely  indulge  in 
a  little  cordiality  when  I  was  just  on  the  point  of  leaving  her, 
and  accordingly  blessed  me,  and  gave  me  her  hand,  which  I 
kissed  very  devoutly.  An  extremely  pretty  hand  it  was,  too, 
notwithstanding  the  good  Queen's  age.  We  then  retired,  and, 
repassing  the  three  ladies,  who  were  now  all  yawning,  re- 
paired to  the  King's  apartments. 

"What  think  you  of  Madame?"  asked  Fleuri. 

"What  can  I  think  of  her,"  said  I,  cautiously,  "but  that 
greatness  seems  in  her  to  take  its  noblest  form, — that  of 
simplicity?" 

"True,"  rejoined  Fleuri;  "never  was  there  so  meek  a  mind 
joined  to  so  lowly  a  carriage !  Do  you  remark  any  trace  of 
former  beauty?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  there  is  much  that  is  soft  in  her  countenance, 
and  much  that  is  still  regular  in  her  features ;  but  what  struck 
me  most  was  the  pensive  and  even  sad  tranquillity  that  rests 
upon  her  face  when  she  is  silent." 

"The  expression  betrays  the  mind,"  answered  Fleuri;  "and 
the  curse  of  the  great  is  ennui.^^ 

"Of  the  great  in  station,"  said  I,  "but  not  necessarily  of 
the  great  in  mind.  I  have  heard  that  the  Bishop  of  Frejus, 
notwithstanding  his  rank  and  celebrity,  employs  every  hour 
to  the  advantage  of  others,  and  consequently  without  tedium 
to  himself." 


DEVEREUX.  281 

"Aha!  "  said  Fleuri,  smiling  gently  and  patting  my  cheek: 
"see  now  if  the  air  of  palaces  is  not  absolutely  prolific  of 
pretty  speeches."  And,  before  I  could  answer,  we  were  in 
the  apartments  of  the  King. 

Leaving  me  a  while  to  cool  my  heels  in  a  gallery,  filled 
with  the  butterflies  who  bask  in  the  royal  sunshine,  Frejus 
then  disappeared  among  the  crowd;  he  was  scarcely  gone 
when  I  was  agreeably  surprised  by  seeing  Count  Hamilton 
approach  towards  me. 

"  Mort  diahle !  "  said  he,  shaking  me  by  the  hand  a  VAn- 
glaise;  "I  am  really  delighted  to  see  any  one  here  who  does 
not  insult  my  sins  with  his  superior  excellence.  Eh,  now, 
look  round  this  apartment  for  a  moment!  Whether  would 
you  believe  yourself  at  the  court  of  a  great  king  or  the  levee 
of  a  Koman  cardinal !  Whom  see  you  chiefly?  Gallant  sol- 
diers, with  worn  brows  and  glittering  weeds?  wise  statesmen 
with  ruin  to  Austria  and  defiance  to  Kome  in  every  wrinkle? 
gay  nobles  in  costly  robes,  and  with  the  bearing  that  so  nicely 
teaches  mirth  to  be  dignified  and  dignity  to  be  merry?  No! 
cassock  and  hat,  rosary  and  gown,  decking  sly,  demure,  hy- 
pocritical faces,  flit,  and  stalk,  and  sadden  round  us.  It 
seems  to  me, "  continued  the  witty  Count,  in  a  lower  whisper, 
"  as  if  the  old  king,  having  fairly  buried  his  glory  at  Kamilies 
and  Blenheim,  had  summoned  all  these  good  gentry  to  sing 
psalms  over  it!    But  are  you  waiting  for  a  private  audience?" 

"Yes,  under  the  auspices  of  the  Bishop  of  Frejus." 

"You  might  have  chosen  a  better  guide :  the  King  has  been 
too  much  teased  about  him,"  rejoined  Hamilton;  "and  now 
that  we  are  talking  of  him,  I  will  show  you  a  singular  in- 
stance of  what  good  manners  can  do  at  court  in  preference  to 
good  abilities.  You  observe  yon  quiet,  modest-looking  man, 
with  a  sensible  countenance  and  a  clerical  garb;  you  observe 
how  he  edges  away  when  any  one  approaches  to  accost  him ; 
and  how,  from  his  extreme  disesteem  of  himself,  he  seems  to 
inspire  every  one  with  the  same  sentiment.  W^ell,  that  man 
is  a  namesake  of  Fleuri,  the  Prior  of  Argenteuil;  he  has 
come  here,  I  suppose,  for  some  particular  and  temporary  pur- 
pose,  since,  in  reality,  he  has  left  the  court.      Well,  that 


282 


DEVEREUX. 


worthy  priest  —  do  remark  his  bow;  did  you  ever  see  anj-- 
thiug  so  awkward?  —  is  one  of  the  most  learned  divines  that 
the  Church  can  boast  of;  he  is  as  immeasurably  superior  to 
the  smooth-faced  Bishop  of  Frejus  as  Louis  the  Fourteenth 
is  to  my  old  friend  Charles  the  Second.  He  has  had  equal 
opportunities  with  the  said  Bishop ;  been  preceptor  to  the 
princes  of  Conti  and  the  Count  de  Vermandois ;  and  yet  I  will 
wager  that  he  lives  and  dies  a  tutor,  a  bookworm  —  and  a 
prior;  while  t'other  Fleuri,  without  a  particle  of  merit  but 
of  the  most  superficial  order,  governs  already  kings  through 
their  mistresses,  kingdoms  through  the  kings,  and  may,  for 
aught  I  know,  expand  into  a  prime  minister  and  ripen  into  a 
cardinal." 

"Nay,"  said  I,  smiling,  "there  is  little  chance  of  so  exalted 
a  lot  for  the  worthy  Bishop." 

"  Pardon  me, "  interrupted  Hamilton,  "  I  am  an  old  courtier, 
and  look  steadily  on  the  game  I  no  longer  play.  Suppleness, 
united  with  art,  may  do  anything  in  a  court  like  this;  and 
the  smooth  and  unelevated  craft  of  a  Fleuri  may  win  even  to 
the  same  height  as  the  deep  wiles  of  the  glittering  Mazarin, 
or  the  superb  genius  of  the  imperious  Richelieu." 

"Hist!  "  said  I,  "the  Bishop  has  reappeared.  Who  is  that 
old  priest  with  a  fine  countenance  and  an  address  that  will, 
at  least,  please  you  better  than  that  of  the  Prior  of  Argen- 
teuil,  who  has  just  stopped  our  episcopal  courtier?  " 

""What!  do  you  not  know?  It  is  the  most  celebrated 
preacher  of  the  day, —  the  great  Massillon.  It  is  said  that 
that  handsome  person  goes  a  great  way  towards  winning  con- 
verts among  the  court  ladies;  it  is  certain,  at  least,  that 
when  Massillon  first  entered  the  profession  he  was  to  the  soul 
something  like  the  spear  of  Achilles  to  the  body ;  and,  though 
very  efficacious  in  healing  the  wounds  of  conscience,  was 
equally  ready  in  the  first  instance  to  inflict  them." 

"Ah,"  said  I,  "see  the  malice  of  wit;  and  see,  above  all, 
how  much  more  ready  one  is  to  mention  a  man's  frailties  than 
to  enlarge  upon  his  virtues." 

"To  be  sure,"  answered  Hamilton,  coolly,  and  patting  his 
snuff-box,    "to  be   sure,   we   old  people   like   history  better 


DEVEREUX.  283 

than  fiction;  and  frailty  is  certain,  while  virtue  is  always 
doubtful." 

"Don't  judge  of  all  people,"  said  I,  "by  your  experience 
among  the  courtiers  of  Charles  the  Second." 

"Right,"  said  Hamilton.  "Providence  never  assembled 
so  many  rascals  together  before  without  hanging  them.  And 
he  would  indeed  be  a  bad  judge  of  human  nature  who  esti- 
mated the  characters  of  men  in  general  by  the  heroes  of  New- 
gate and  the  victims  of  Tyburn.  But  your  Bishop  approaches. 
Adieu!" 

"What!"  said  Fleuri,  joining  me  and  saluting  Hamilton, 
who  had  just  turned  to  depart,  "  what.  Count  Antoiue !  Does 
anything  but  whim  bring  you  here  to-day?" 

"Xo,"  answered  Hamilton;  "lam  only  here  for  the  same 
purpose  as  the  poor  go  to  the  temples  of  Caitan, — to  inhale 
the  steam  of  those  good  things  which  I  see  thepi'iests  devour." 

"  Ha !  ha !  ha !  "  laughed  the  good-natured  Bishop,  not  in  the 
least  disconcerted;  and  Count  Hamilton,  congratulating  him- 
self on  his  bon  mot,  turned  away. 

"I  have  spoken  to  his  Most  Christian  Majesty,"  said  the 
Bishop;  "he  is  willing,  as  he  before  ordained,  to  admit  you  to 
his  presence.  The  Due  de  Maine  is  with  the  King,  as  also 
some  other  members  of  the  royal  family;  but  you  will 
consider  this  a  private  audience." 

I  expressed  my  gratitude:  we  moved  on;  the  doors  of  an 
apartment  were  thrown  open;  and  I  saw  myself  in  the 
presence  of  Louis  XIV. 

The  room  was  partially  darkened.  In  the  centre  of  it,  on 
a  large  sofa,  reclined  the  King;  he  was  dressed  (though  this, 
if  I  may  so  speak,  I  rather  remembered  than  noted)  in  a  coat 
of  black  velvet,  slightly  embroidered;  his  vest  was  of  white 
satin ;  he  wore  no  jewels  nor  orders,  for  it  Avas  only  on  grand 
or  gala  days  that  he  displaj^ed  personal  pomp.  At  some  little 
distance  from  him  stood  three  members  of  the  royal  family; 
them  I  never  regarded:  all  my  attention  was  bent  upon  the 
King.  My  temperament  is  not  that  on  which  greatness,  or 
indeed  any  external  circumstances,  make  much  impression; 
but  as,  following  at  a  little  distance  the  Bishop  of  Fr6jus,  I 


284  DEVEREUX. 

approached  the  royal  person,  I  must  confess  that  Bolingbroke 
had  scarcely  need  to  have  cautioned  me  not  to  appear  too  self- 
possessed.  Perhaps,  had  I  seen  that  great  monarch  in  his 
heaux  jours ;  in  the  plenitude  of  his  power,  his  glory,  the 
dazzling  and  meridian  splendour  of  his  person,  his  court,  and 
his  renown, —  pride  might  have  made  me  more  on  my  guard 
against  too  deep,  or  at  least  too  apparent,  an  impression ;  but 
the  many  reverses  of  that  magnificent  sovereign, — reverses  in 
which  he  had  shown  himself  more  great  than  in  all  his  pre- 
vious triumphs  and  early  successes;  his  age,  his  infirmities, 
the  very  clouds  round  the  setting  sun,  the  very  howls  of  joy 
at  the  expiring  lion, —  all  were  calculated,  in  my  mind,  to 
deepen  respect  into  reverence,  and  tincture  reverence  itself 
with  awe.  I  saw  before  me  not  only  the  majesty  of  Louis  le 
Grand,  but  that  of  misfortune,  of  weakness,  of  infirmity,  and 
of  age ;  and  I  forgot  at  once,  in  that  reflection,  what  otherwise 
would  have  blunted  my  sentiments  of  deference,  namely,  the 
crimes  of  his  ministers  and  the  exactions  of  his  reign.  En- 
deavouring to  collect  my  mind  from  an  embarrassment  which 
surprised  myself,  I  lifted  my  eyes  towards  the  King,  and  saw 
a  countenance  where  the  trace  of  the  superb  beauty  for  which 
his  manhood  had  been  celebrated  still  lingered,  broken,  not 
destroyed,  and  borrowing  a  dignity  even  more  imposing  from 
the  marks  of  Encroaching  years  and  from  the  evident  exhaus- 
tion of  suffering  and  disease. 

Fleuri  said,  in  a  low  tone,  something  which  my  ear  did  not 
catch.  There  was  a  pause, — only  a  moment's  pause;  and 
then,  in  a  voice,  the  music  of  which  I  had  hitherto  deemed 
exaggerated,  the  King  spoke;  and  in  that  voice  there  was 
something  so  kind  and  encouraging  that  I  felt  reassured  at 
once.  Perhaps  its  tone  was  not  the  less  conciliating  from  the 
evident  effect  which  the  royal  presence  had  produced  upon 
me. 

"You  have  given  us.  Count  Devereux,"  said  the  King,  "a 
pleasure  which  we  are  glad,  in  person,  to  acknowledge  to  you. 
And  it  has  seemed  to  us  fitting  that  the  country  in  which  your 
brave  father  acquired  his  fame  should  also  be  the  asylum  of 
his  son." 


DEVEREUX.  285 

"Sire,"  answered  I,  "Sire,  it  shall  not  be  my  fault  if  that 
country  is  not  henceforth  my  own;  and  in  inheriting  my 
father's  name,  I  inherit  also  his  gratitude  and  his  ambition." 

"It  is  well  said,  Sir,"  said  the  King;  and  I  once  more  raised 
my  eyes,  and  perceived  that  his  were  bent  upon  me.  "  It  is 
well  said, "  he  repeated  after  a  short  pause ;  "  and  in  granting 
to  you  this  audience,  we  were  not  unwilling  to  hope  that  you 
Avere  desirous  to  attach  yourself  to  our  coiirt.  The  times  do 
not  require  "  (here  I  thought  the  old  King's  voice  was  not  so 
firm  as  before)  "the  manifestation  of  your  zeal  in  the  same 
career  as  that  in  which  your  father  gained  laurels  to  France 
and  to  himself.  But  we  will  not  neglect  to  find  employment 
for  your  abilities,  if  not  for  your  sword." 

"That  sword  which  was  given  to  me,  Sire,"  said  I,  "by 
your  ^Majesty,  shall  be  ever  drawn  (against  all  nations  but 
one)  at  your  command;  and,  in  being  your  Majesty's  peti- 
tioner for  future  favours,  I  only  seek  some  channel  through 
which  to  evince  my  gratitude  for  the  past." 

"We  do  not  doubt,"  said  Louis,  "that  whatever  be  the 
number  of  the  ungrateful  we  may  make  by  testifying  our  good 
pleasure  on  your  behalf,  you  will  not  be  among  the  number." 
The  King  here  made  a  slight  but  courteous  inclination  and 
turned  round.  The  observant  Bishop  of  Frejus,  who  had 
retired  to  a  little  distance  and  who  knew  that  the  King  never 
liked  talking  more  than  he  could  help  it,  gave  me  a  signal. 
I  obeyed,  and  backed,  with  all  due  deference,  out  of  the  royal 
presence. 

So  closed  my  interview  with  Louis  XIV.  Although  his 
Majesty  did  not  indulge  in  prolixity,  I  spoke  of  him  for  a 
long  time  afterwards  as  the  most  eloquent  of  men.  Believe 
me,  there  is  no  orator  like  a  king;  one  word  from  a  royal 
mouth  stirs  the  heart  more  than  Demosthenes  could  have 
done.  There  was  a  deep  moral  in  that  custom  of  the  ancients, 
by  which  the  Goddess  of  Persuasion  was  always  represented 
with  a  diadem  on  her  head. 


286  DEVEREUX. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

REFLECTIONS. — A  SOIREE. THE   APPEARANCE  OF  ONE  IMPOR- 
TANT   IN    THE    HISTORY.  A     CONVERSATION     WITH    MADAME 

DE  BALZAC    HIGHLY  SATISFACTORY  AND   CHEERING. A   REN- 
CONTRE   WITH    A    CURIOUS    OLD    SOLDIER. THE     EXTINCTION 

OF    A   ONCE    GREAT   LUMINARY. 

I  HAD  now  been  several  weeks  at  Paris;  I  had  neither 
eagerly  sought  nor  sedulously  avoided  its  gayeties.  It  is  not 
that  one  violent  sorrow  leaves  us  without  power  of  enjoy- 
ment; it  only  lessens  the  power,  and  deadens  the  enjoyment: 
it  does  not  take  away  from  us  the  objects  of  life;  it  only 
forestalls  the  more  indifferent  calmness  of  age.  The  blood 
no  longer  flows  in  an  irregular  but  delicious  course  of  vivid 
and  Avild  emotion;  the  step  no  longer  spurns  the  earth;  nor 
does  the  ambition  wander,  insatiable,  yet  undefined,  over  the 
million  paths  of  existence :  but  we  lose  not  our  old  capacities ; 
they  are  quieted,  not  extinct.  The  heart  can  never  utterly 
and  long  be  dormant :  trifles  may  not  charm  it  any  more,  nor 
levities  delight ;  but  its  pulse  has  not  yet  ceased  to  beat.  We 
survey  the  scene  that  moves  around,  with  a  gaze  no  longer 
distracted  by  every  hope  that  flutters  by ;  and  it  is  therefore 
that  we  find  ourselves  more  calculated  than  before  for  the 
graver  occupations  of  our  race.  The  overflowing  tempera- 
ment is  checked  to  its  proper  level,  the  ambition  bounded  to 
its  prudent  and  lawful  goal.  The  earth  is  no  longer  so  green, 
nor  the  heaven  so  blue,  nor  the  fancy  that  stirs  Avithin  us  so 
rich  in  its  creations;  but  we  look  more  narrowly  on  the  living 
crowd,  and  more  rationally  on  the  aims  of  men.  The  misfor- 
tune which  has  changed  us  has  only  adapted  us  the  better  to 
a  climate  in  which  misfortune  is  a  portion  of  the  air.  The 
grief  that  has  thralled  our  spirit  to  a  more  narrow  and  dark 
cell  has  also  been  a  change  that  has  linked  us  to  mankind 
with  a  strength  of  which  we  dreamed  not  in  the  day  of  a 


DEVEREUX.  287 

wilder  freedom  and  more  luxuriant  aspirings.  In  later  life, 
a  new  spirit,  partaking  of  that  which  was  our  earliest,  returns 
to  us.  The  solitude  which  delighted  us  in  youth,  but  which, 
when  the  thoughts  that  make  solitude  a  fairy  land  are  dark- 
ened by  affliction,  becomes  a  fearful  and  sombre  void,  resumes 
its  old  spell,  as  the  more  morbid  and  urgent  memory  of  that 
affliction  crumbles  away  by  time.  Content  is  a  hermit;  but 
so  also  is  Apathy.  Youth  loves  the  solitary  couch,  which  it 
surrounds  with  dreams.  Age,  or  Experience  (which  is  the 
mind's  age),  loves  the  same  couch  for  the  rest  which  it  af- 
fords; but  the  wide  interval  between  is  that  of  exertion,  of 
labour,  and  of  labour  among  men.  The  woe  which  makes  our 
hearts  less  social,  often  makes  our  habits  more  so.  The 
thoughts,  which  in  calm  would  have  shunned  the  world,  are 
driven  upon  it  by  the  tempest,  even  as  the  birds  which  for- 
sake the  habitable  land  can,  so  long  as  the  wind  sleeps  and 
the  thunder  rests  within  its  cloud,  become  the  constant  and 
solitary  brooders  over  the  waste  sea:  but  the  moment  the 
storm  awakes  and  the  blast  pursues  them,  they  fly,  by  an 
overpowering  instinct,  to  some  wandering  bark,  some  ves- 
tige of  human  and  social  life;  and  exchange,  even  for  danger 
from  the  hands  of  men,  the  desert  of  an  angry  Heaven  and 
the  solitude  of  a  storm. 

I  heard  no  more  either  of  Madame  de  Maintenon  or  the  King. 
Meanwhile,  my  flight  and  friendship  with  Lord  Bolingbroke 
had  given  me  a  consequence  in  the  eyes  of  the  exiled  Prince 
which  I  should  not  otherwise  have  enjoA'ed;  and  I  was  hon- 
oured by  very  flattering  overtures  to  enter  actively  into  liis 
service.  I  have  before  said  that  I  felt  no  enthusiasm  in  his 
cause,  and  I  was  far  from  feeling  it  for  his  person.  My  am- 
bition rather  directed  its  hope  towards  a  career  in  the  service 
of  France.  France  was  the  country  of  my  birth,  and  the 
country  of  my  father's  fame.  There  no  withering  remem- 
brances awaited  me;  no  private  regrets  were  associated  with 
its  scenes,  and  no  public  penalties  with  its  political  institu- 
tions. And  although  I  had  not  yet  received  any  token  of 
Louis's  remembrance,  in  the  ordinary  routine  of  court  fa- 
vours expectation  as  yet  would  have  been  premature;   be- 


288  DEVEREUX. 

sides,  his  royal  fidelity  to  his  word  was  proverbial;  and, 
sooner  or  later,  I  indulged  the  hope  to  profit  by  the  sort  of 
promise  he  had  insinuated  to  me.  I  declined,  therefore,  with 
all  due  respect,  the  offers  of  the  Chevalier,  and  continued  to 
live  the  life  of  idleness  and  expectation,  until  Lord  Boling- 
broke  returned  to  Paris,  and  accepted  the  office  of  secretary 
of  state  in  the  service  of  the  Chevalier.  As  he  has  publicly 
declared  his  reasons  in  this  step,  I  do  not  mean  to  favour  the 
world  with  his  private  conversations  on  the  same  subject. 

A  day  or  two  after  his  return,  I  went  with  him  to  a  party 
given  by  a  member  of  the  royal  family.  The  first  person  by 
whom  we  were  accosted  —  and  I  rejoiced  at  it,  for  we  could 
not  have  been  accosted  by  a  more  amusing  one  —  was  Count 
Anthony  Hamilton. 

"Ah!  my  Lord  Bolingbroke, "  said  he,  sauntering  up  to  us; 
"how  are  you?  —  delighted  to  see  you  again.  Do  look  at 
Madame  la  Duchesse  d'Orleans!  Saw  you  ever  such  a  creat- 
ure? Whither  are  you  moving,  my  Lord?  Ah!  see  him, 
Count,  see  him,  gliding  off  to  that  pretty  duchess,  of  course ; 
well,  he  has  a  beautiful  bow,  it  must  be  owned ;  why,  you  are 
not  going  too?  —  what  would  the  world  say  if  Count  Anthony 
Hamilton  were  seen  left  to  himself?  No,  no,  come  and  sit 
down  by  Madame  de  Cornuel :  she  longs  to  be  introduced  to 
you,   and  is  one  of  the  wittiest  women  in  Europe." 

"With  all  my  heart!  provided  she  employs  her  wit  ill- 
naturedly,  and  uses  it  in  ridiculing  other  people,  not  prais- 
ing herself." 

"Oh!  nobody  can  be  more  satirical;  indeed,  what  difference 
is  there  between  wit  and  satire?    Come,  Count!  " 

And  Hamilton  introduced  me  forthwith  to  Madame  de  Cor- 
nuel. She  received  me  very  politely;  and,  turning  to  two  or 
three  people  who  formed  the  circle  round  her,  said,  with  the 
greatest  composure,  "  Messieurs,  oblige  me  by  seeking  some 
other  object  of  attraction;  I  wish  to  have  a  private  conference 
with  my  new  friend." 

"I  may  stay?"  said  Hamilton. 

"  Ah !  certainly ;  you  are  never  in  the  way. " 

"In  that  respect,  Madame,"  said  Hamilton,  taking  snuff; 


DEVEREUX.  289 

and  bowing  very  low,  "in  that  respect,  I  must  strongly  re- 
mind you  of  your  excellent  husband." 

"  Fie !  "  cried  Madame  de  Cornuel ;  then,  turning  to  me,  she 
said,  "Ah!  Monsieur,  if  you  could  have  come  to  Paris  some 
years  ago,  you  would  have  been  enchanted  with  us :  we  are 
sadly  changed.  Imagine  the  fine  old  King  thinking  it  wicked 
not  to  hear  plays,  but  to  hear  players  act  them,  and  so  mak- 
ing the  royal  family  a  company  of  comedians.  Mon  Dieu  ! 
how  villanously  they  perform !  but  do  you  know  why  I  wished 
to  be  introduced  to  you?  " 

"Yes!  in  order  to  have  a  new  listener:  old  listeners  must 
be  almost  as  tedious  as  old  news." 

"  Very  shrewdly  said,  and  not  far  from  the  truth.  The  fact 
is,  that  I  wanted  to  talk  about  all  these  fine  people  present 
to  some  one  for  whose  ear  my  anecdotes  would  have  the  charm 
of  novelty.  Let  us  begin  with  Louis  Armand,  Prince  of 
Conti;    you  see  him." 

"What,  that  short-sighted,  stout,  and  rather  handsome 
man,  with  a  cast  of  countenance  somewhat  like  the  pictures 
of  Henri  Quatre,   who  is  laughing  so  merrily?" 

"  0  del!  how  droll!  No!  that  handsome  man  is  no  less  a 
person  than  the  Due  d'Orleans.  You  see  a  little  ugly  thing 
like  an  anatomized  ape, —  there,  see,  —  he  has  just  thrown 
down  a  chair,  and,  in  stooping  to  pick  it  up,  has  almost 
fallen  over  the  Dutch  ambassadress, —  that  is  Louis  Armand, 
Prince  of  Conti.  Do  you  know  what  the  Due  d'Orleans  said 
to  him  the  other  day?  ^Mon  bon  ami,'  he  said,  pointing 
to  the  prince's  limbs  (did  you  ever  see  such  limbs  out  of  a 
menagerie,  by  the  by?)  '}non  bon  ami,  it  is  a  fine  thing 
for  you  that  the  Psalmist  has  assured  us  "that  the  Lord 
delighteth  not  in  any  man's  legs."  '  Nay,  don't  laugh,  it  is 
quite  true ! " 

It  was  now  for  Count  Hamilton  to  take  up  the  ball  of 
satire ;  he  was  not  a  whit  more  merciful  than  the  kind  Madame 
de  Cornuel.  "The  Prince,"  said  he,  "has  so  exquisite  an 
awkwardness  that,  whenever  the  King  hears  a  noise,  and  in- 
quires the  cause,  the  invariable  answer  is  that  'the  Prince  of 
Conti  has  just  tumbled  down ' !     But,  tell  me,  what  do  you 

19 


290  DEVEREUX. 

think  of  Madame  d'Aumont?  She  is  in  the  English  head- 
dress, and  looks  triste  a  la  mort." 

"She  is  rather  pretty,  to  my  taste." 

"Yes,"  cried  Madame  de  Cornuel,  interrupting  the  gentle 
Antoine  (it  did  one's  heart  good  to  see  how  strenuously  each 
of  them  tried  to  talk  more  scandal  than  the  other),  "yes,  she 
is  thought  very  pretty;  but  I  think  her  very  like  a  frica7ideau, 
—  white,  soft,  and  insipid.  She  is  always  in  tears,"  added 
the  good-natured  Cornuel,  "after  her  prayers,  both  at  morn- 
ing and  evening.  I  asked  why;  and  she  answered,  pretty 
simpleton,  that  she  was  always  forced  to  pray  to  be  made 
good,  and  she  feared  Heaven  would  take  her  at  her  word! 
However,  she  has  many  worshippers,  and  they  call  her  the 
evening  star." 

"  They  should  rather  call  her  the  Hyades !  "  said  Hamilton, 
"  if  it  be  true  that  she  sheds  tears  every  morning  and  night, 
and  her  rising  and  setting  are  thus  always  attended  by  rain. " 

"Bravo,  Count  Antoine!  she  shall  be  so  called  in  future," 
said  Madame  de  Cornuel.  "But  now.  Monsieur  Devereux, 
turn  your  eyes  to  that  hideous  old  woman." 

"What!  the  Duchesse  d'Orleans?" 

"  The  same.  She  is  in  full  dress  to-night ;  but  in  the  day- 
time you  generally  see  her  in  a  riding  habit  and  a  man's  wig; 
she  is  —  " 

"  Hist !  "  interrupted  Hamilton ;  "  do  you  not  tremble  to 
think  what  she  would  do  if  she  overheard  you?  she  is  such  a 
terrible  creature  at  fighting !  You  have  no  conception,  Count, 
what  an  arm  she  has.  She  knows  her  ugliness,  and  laughs  at 
it,  as  all  the  rest  of  the  world  does.  The  King  took  her  hand 
one  day,  and  said  smiling,  'What  could  Nature  have  meant 
when  she  gave  this  hand  to  a  German  princess  instead  of  a 
Dutch  peasant?'  'Sire,'  said  the  Duchesse,  very  gravely, 
'Nature  gave  this  hand  to  a  German  princess  for  the  purpose 
of  boxing  the  ears  of  her  ladies  in  waiting ! ' " 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!"  said  Madame  de  Cornuel,  laughing;  "one 
is  never  at  a  loss  for  jokes  upon  a  woman  who  eats  salade  au 
lard,  and  declares  that,  whenever  she  is  unhappy,  her  only 
consolation  is  ham  and  sausasres!     Her  son  treats  her  with 


DEVEREUX.  291 

the  greatest  respect,  and  consults  her  in  all  his  amours,  for 
which  she  professes  the  greatest  horror,  and  which  she  retails 
to  her  correspondents  all  over  the  world,  in  letters  as  long  as 
her  pedigree.  But  you  are  looking  at  her  son,  is  he  not  of  a 
good  mien?" 

"Yes,  pretty  well;  but  does  not  exhibit  to  advantage  by 
the  side  of  Lord  Bolingbroke,  with  whom  he  is  now  talking. 
Pray,  who  is  the  third  personage  that  has  just  joined  them?" 

"Oh,  the  wretch!  it  is  the  Abbe  Dubois;  a  living  proof  of 
the  folly  of  the  French  proverb,  which  says  that  Mercuries 
should  not  be  made  du  hois.  Never  was  there  a  Mercury 
equal  to  the  Abbe, — but,  do  look  at  that  old  man  to  the  left, 
—  he  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable  persons  of  the  age." 

"What!  he  Avith  the  small  features,  and  comely  counte- 
nance,  considering  his  years?" 

"The  same,"  said  Hamilton;  "it  is  the  notorious  Choisi. 
You  know  that  he  is  the  modern  Tiresias,  and  has  been  a 
woman  as  well  as  man." 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"  Ah,  you  may  well  ask !  "  cried  Madame  de  Cornuel.  "  Why, 
he  lived  for  many  years  in  the  disguise  of  a  woman,  and  had 
all  sorts  of  curious  adventures." 

"  Mort  Diahle !  "  cried  Hamilton ;  "  it  was  entering  your 
ranks,  Madame,  as  a  spy.  I  hear  he  makes  but  a  sorry  report 
of  what  he  saw  there." 

"Come,  Count  Antoine,"  cried  the  lively  de  Cornuel,  "we 
must  not  turn  our  weapons  against  each  other;  and  when  you 
attack  a  Avoman's  sex  you  attack  her  individually.  But  what 
makes  you  look  so  intently.  Count  Devereux,  at  that  ugly 
priest?" 

The  person  thus  flatteringly  designated  was  Montreuil-,  he 
had  just  caught  my  eye,  among  a  group  of  men  who  were 
conversing  eagerly. 

"Hush!  Madame,"  said  I,  "spare  me  for  a  moment;  "  and  I 
rose,  and  mingled  with  the  Abbe's  companions.  "So,  you 
have  only  arrived  to-day,"  I  heard  one  of  them  say  to  him. 

"No,  I  could  not  despatch  my  business  before." 

"And  how  are  matters  in  England?  " 


292  DEVEREUX. 

"  Ripe !  if  the  life  of  his  Majesty  (of  France)  be  spared  a 
year  longer,  we  will  send  the  Elector  of  Hanover  back  to  his 
principality." 

"Hist!"  said  the  companion,  and  looked  towards  me. 
Montreuil  ceased  abruptly:  our  eyes  met;  his  fell.  I  af- 
fected to  look  among  the  group  as  if  I  had  expected  to  find 
there  some  one  I  knew,  and  then,  turning  away,  I  seated  my- 
self alone  and  apart.  There,  unobserved,  I  kept  my  looks  on 
Montreuil.  I  remarked  that,  from  time  to  time,  his  keen 
dark  eye  glanced  towards  me,  with  a  look  rather  expressive 
of  vigilance  than  anything  else.  Soon  afterwards  his  little 
knot  dispersed;  I  saw  him  converse  for  a  few  moments  with 
Dubois,  who  received  him  I  thought  distantly;  and  then  he 
was  engaged  in  a  long  conference  with  the  Bishop  of  Frejus, 
whom,  till  then,  I  had  not  perceived  among  the  crowd. 

As  I  was  loitering  on  the  staircase,  where  I  saw  Montreuil 
depart  with  the  Bishop,  in  thfi  carriage  of  the  latter,  Hamil- 
ton, accosting  me,  insisted  on  my  accompanying  him  to  Chau- 
lieu's,  where  a  late  supper  awaited  the  sons  of  wine  and  wit. 
However,  to  the  good  Count's  great  astonishment,  I  preferred 
solitude  and  reflection,  for  that  night,  to  anything  else. 

Montreuil's  visit  to  the  French  capital  boded  me  no  good. 
He  possessed  great  influence  with  Fleuri,  and  was  in  high 
esteem  with  Madame  de  Maintenon,  and,  in  effect,  very  shortly 
after  his  return  to  Paris,  the  Bishop  of  Frejus  looked  upon 
me  with  a  most  cool  sort  of  benignancy ;  and  Madame  de  Main- 
tenon  told  her  friend,  the  Duchesse  de  St.  Simon,  that  it  was 
a  great  pity  a  young  nobleman  of  my  birth  and  prepossessing 
appearance  (ay!  my  prepossessing  appearance  would  never 
have  occurred  to  the  devotee,  if  I  had  not  seemed  so  sensible 
of  her  own)  should  not  only  be  addicted  to  the  wildest  dissi- 
pation, but,  worse  still,  to  Jansenistical  tenets.  After  this 
there  was  no  hope  for  me  save  in  the  King's  word,  which  his 
increasing  infirmities,  naturally  engrossing  his  attention,  pre- 
vented my  hoping  too  sanguinely  would  dwell  very  acutely  on 
his  remembrance.  I  believe,  however,  so  religiously  scrupu- 
lous was  Louis  upon  a  point  of  honour  that,  had  he  lived,  I 
should  have  had  nothing  to  complain  of.     As  it  was  —  but  I 


DEVEREUX.  293 

anticipate!  Montreuil  disappeared  from  Paris,  almost  as 
suddenly  as  he  had  appeared  there.  And,  as  drowning  men 
catch  at  a  straw,  so,  finding  my  affairs  at  a  very  low  ebb,  I 
thought  I  would  take  advice,  even  from  Madame  de  Balzac. 

I  accordingly  repaired  to  her  hotel.  She  was  at  home,  and, 
fortunately,  alone. 

"  You  are  welcome,  mon  jils, "  said  she ;  "  suffer  me  to  give 
you  that  title :  you  are  welcome ;  it  is  some  days  since  I  saw 
you." 

"I  have  numbered  them,  I  assure  you,  Madame,"  said  I, 
"and  they  have  crept  with  a  dull  pace;  but  you  know  that 
business  has  claims  as  well  as  pleasure ! " 

"True!"  said  Madame  de  Balzac,  pompously:  "I  myself 
find  the  weight  of  politics  a  little  insupportable,  though  so 
used  to  it;  to  your  young  brain  I  can  readily  imagine  how 
irksome  it  must  be ! " 

"  Would,  Madame,  that  I  could  obtain  your  experience  by 
contagion ;  as  it  is,  I  fear  that  I  have  profited  little  by  my 
visit  to  his  Majest3\  Madame  de  Maintenon  will  not  see  me, 
and  the  Bishop  of  Frejus  (excellent  man!)  has  been  seized 
with  a  sudden  paralysis  of  memory  whenever  I  present  my- 
self in  his  way." 

"That  party  will  never  do, —  I  thought  not,"  said  Madame 
de  Balzac,  who  was  a  wonderful  imitator  of  the  fly  on  the 
•wheel;  "my  celebrity,  and  the  knowledge  that  /  loved  you 
for  your  father's  sake,  were,  I  fear,  sufficient  to  destroy  your 
interest  with  the  Jesuits  and  their  tools.  Well,  well,  we 
must  repair  the  mischief  we  have  occasioned  you.  What 
place  would  suit  you  best?" 

"  Why,  anything  diplomatic.  I  would  rather  travel,  at  my 
age,  than  remain  in  luxury  and  indolence  even  at  Paris !  " 

"Ah,  nothing  like  diplomacy!"  said  Madame  de  Balzac, 
with  the  air  of  a  Richelieu,  and  emptying  her  snuff-box  at  a 
pinch;  "but  have  you,  my  son,  the  requisite  qualities  for 
that  science,  as  well  as  the  tastes?  Are  you  capable  of  in- 
trigue? Can  you  say  one  thing  and  mean  another?  Are 
you  aware  of  the  immense  consequence  of  a  look  or  a  bow? 
Can  you  live  like  a  spider,  in  the  centre  of  an  inexplicable 


294  DEVEREUX. 

net  —  inexplicable  as  well  as  dangerous  —  to  all  but  the 
weaver?  That,  my  son,  is  the  art  of  politics;  that  is  to  be 
a  diplomatist ! " 

"Perhaps,  to  one  less  penetrating  than  Madame  de  Balzac," 
answered  I,  "  I  might,  upon  trial,  not  appear  utterly  ignorant 
of  the  noble  art  of  state  duplicity  which  she  has  so  eloquently 
depicted." 

"Possibly!  "  said  the  good  lady;  "it  must  indeed  be  a  pro- 
found dissimulator  to  deceive  me." 

"But  what  would  you  advise  me  to  do  in  the  present  crisis? 
What  party  to  adopt,  what  individual  to  flatter?  " 

Nothing,  I  already  discovered  and  have  already  observed, 
did  the  inestimable  Madame  de  Balzac  dislike  more  than  a 
downright  question :  she  never  answered  it, 

"Why,  really,"  said  she,  preparing  herself  for  a  long 
speech,  "  I  am  quite  glad  you  consult  me,  and  I  will  give  you 
the  best  advice  in  my  power.  J^coutez  done;  you  have  seen 
the  Due  de  Maine?" 

"Certainly!" 

"  Hum !  ha !  it  would  be  wise  to  follow  him ;  but  —  you  take 
me  —  you  understand.  Then,  you  know,  my  son,  there  is  the 
Due  d'Orleans,  fond  of  pleasure,  full  of  talent;  but  you  know 

—  there  is  a  little  —  what  do  you  call  it?  you  understand.  As 
for  the  Due  de  Bourbon,  't  is  quite  a  simpleton ;  nevertheless 
we  must  consider:  nothing  like  consideration;  believe  me,  no 
diplomatist  ever  hurries.  As  for  Madame  de  Maintenon,  you 
know,  and  I  know  too,  that  the  Duchesse  d'Orleans  calls  her 
an  old  hag;  but  then  —  a  word  to  the  wise  —  eh?  —  what 
shall  we  say  to  Madame  the  Duchess  herself  ?  —  what  a  fat 
woman  she  is,  but  excessively  clever, —  such  a  letter  writer! 

—  Well  —  you  see,  my  dear  young  friend,  that  it  is  a  very 
difficult  matter  to  decide  upon,  —  but  you  must  already  be 
fully  aware  what  plan  I  should  advise." 

"Already,  Madame?" 

"To  be  sure!  What  have  I  been  saying  to  you  all  this 
time?  —  did  you  not  hear  me?     Shall  I  repeat  my  advice?  " 

"  Oh,  no !  I  perfectly  comprehend  you  now ;  you  would  ad- 
vise me  —  in  short  —  to  —  to  —  do  —  as  well  as  I  can. " 


DEVEREUX.  295 

"You  have  said  it,  my  son.  I  thought  you  would  under- 
stand me  on  a  little  reflection." 

"To  be  sure, —  to  be  sure,"  said  I. 

And  three  ladies  being  announced,  my  conference  with 
Madame  de  Balzac  ended. 

I  now  resolved  to  wait  a  little  till  the  tides  of  power  seemed 
somewhat  more  settled,  and  I  could  ascertain  in  what  quarter 
to  point  my  bark  of  enterprise.  I  gave  myself  rather  more 
eagerly  to  society,  in  proportion  as  my  political  schemes  were 
suffered  to  remain  torpid.  My  mind  could  not  remain  quiet, 
without  preying  on  itself;  and  no  evil  appeared  to  me  so  great 
as  tranquillity.  Thus  the  spring  and  earlier  summer  passed 
on,  till,  in  August,  the  riots  preceding  the  Rebellion  broke 
out  in  Scotland.  At  this  time  I  saw  but  little  of  Lord  Boling- 
broke  in  private;  though,  with  his  characteristic  affectation, 
he  took  care  that  the  load  of  business  with  which  he  was 
really  oppressed  should  not  prevent  his  enjoyment  of  all  gay- 
eties  in  public.  And  my  indifference  to  the  cause  of  the 
Chevalier,  in  which  he  was  so  warmly  engaged,  threw  a  nat- 
ural restraint  upon  our  conversation,  and  produced  an  invol- 
untary coldness  in  our  intercourse:  so  impossible  is  it  for 
men  to  be  private  friends  who  differ  on  a  public  matter. 

One  evening  I  was  engaged  to  meet  a  large  party  at  a  coun- 
try-house about  forty  miles  from  Paris.  I  went,  and  stayed 
some  days.  My  horses  had  accompanied  me;  and,  when  I 
left  the  chateau,  I  resolved  to  make  the  journey  to  Paris  on 
horseback.  Accordingly,  I  ordered  ray  carriage  to  follow  me, 
and  attended  by  a  single  groom,  commenced  my  expedition. 
It  was  a  beautiful  still  morning,  —  the  first  day  of  the  first 
month  of  autumn.  I  had  proceeded  about  ten  miles,  when  I 
fell  in  with  an  old  French  officer.  I  remember, — though  I 
never  saw  him  but  that  once, —  I  remember  his  face  as  if 
I  had  encountered  it  yesterday.  It  was  thin  and  long,  and 
yellow  enough  to  have  served  as  a  caricature  rather  than  a 
portrait  of  Don  Quixote.  He  had  a  hook  nose,  and  a  long 
sharp  chin;  and  all  the  lines,  wrinkles,  curves,  and  furrows 
of  which  the  human  visage  is  capable  seemed  to  have  met  in 
his  cheeks.     Nevertheless,  his  eye  was  bright  and  keen,  his 


296  DEVEREUX. 

look  alert,  and  his  whole  bearing  firm,  gallant,  and  soldier- 
like. He  was  attired  in  a  sort  of  military  undress;  wore  a 
mustachio,  which,  though  thin  and  gray,  was  carefully  curled ; 
and  at  the  summit  of  a  very  respectable  wig  was  perched  a 
small  cocked  hat,  adorned  with  a  black  feather.  He  rode 
very  upright  in  his  saddle;  and  his  horse,  a  steady,  stalwart 
quadruped  of  the  Norman  breed,  with  a  terribly  long  tail  and 
a  prodigious  breadth  of  chest,  put  one  stately  leg  before  an- 
other in  a  kind  of  trot,  which,  though  it  seemed,  from  its 
height  of  action  and  the  proud  look  of  the  steed,  a  pretension 
to  motion  more  than  ordinarily  brisk,  was  in  fact  a  little  slower 
than  a  common  walk. 

This  noble  cavalier  seemed  sufficiently  an  object  of  cui-iosity 
to  my  horse  to  induce  the  animal  to  testify  his  surprise  by 
shying,  .very  jealously  and  very  vehemently,  in  passing  him. 
This  ill  breeding  on  his  part  was  indignantly  returned  on  the 
part  of  the  ^STorman  charger,  who,  uttering  a  sort  of  squeak 
and  shaking  his  long  mane  and  head,  commenced  a  series  of 
curvets  and  capers  which  cost  the  old  Frenchman  no  little 
trouble  to  appease.  In  the  midst  of  these  equine  freaks,  the 
horse  came  so  near  me  as  to  splash  my  nether  garment  with  a 
liberality  as  little  ornamental  as  it  was  pleasurable. 

The  old  Frenchman  seeing  this,  took  off  his  cocked  hat  very 
politely  and  apologized  for  the  accident.  I  replied  with  equal 
courtesy;  and,  as  our  horses  slid  into  quiet,  their  riders  slid 
into  conversation.  It  was  begun  and  chiefly  sustained  by  my 
new  comrade ;  for  I  am  little  addicted  to  commence  unneces- 
sary socialities  myself,  though  I  should  think  very  meanly  of 
my  pretensions  to  the  name  of  a  gentleman  and  a  courtier,  if  I 
did  not  return  them  when  offered,  even  by  a  beggar. 

''It  is  a  fine  horse  of  yours.  Monsieur,"  said  the  old  French- 
man ;  "  but  I  cannot  believe  —  pardon  me  for  saying  so  —  that 
your  slight  English  steeds  are  so  well  adapted  to  the  purposes 
of  war  as  our  strong  chargers, —  such  as  mine  for  example." 

"It  is  very  possible.  Monsieur,"  said  I.  "Has  the  horse 
you  now  ride  done  service  in  the  field  as  well  as  on  the  road  ?  " 

"Ah!  le  pauvre  2)eti-t  mignon,  —  no!"  {petit,  indeed!  this 
little  darling  was  seventeen  hands  high  at  the  very  least) — 


DEVEREUX.  297 

"no,  Monsieur:  it  is  Init  a  young  creature  this;   Lis  grand- 
father service!  me  well!" 

"I  need  not  ask  you,  Monsieur,  if  you  have  borne  arms: 
the  soldier  is  stamped  upon  you ! " 

"Sir,  you  flatter  me  highly!"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
blushing  to  the  very  tip  of  his  long  lean  ears,  and  bowing  as 
low  as  if  I  had  called  him  a  Conde.  "  I  have  followed  the 
profession  of  arms  for  more  than  fifty  years." 

"Fifty  years!  'tis  a  long  time." 

"A  long  time,"  rejoined  my  companion,  "a  long  time  to 
look  back  upon  with  regret." 

"Regret!  by  Heaven,  I  should  think  the  remembrance  of 
fifty  years'  excitement  and  glory  would  be  a  remembrance  of 
triumph." 

The  old  man  turned  round  on  his  saddle,  and  looked  at  me 
for  some  moments  very  wistfully.  "You  are  young,  Sir,"  he 
said,  "and  at  your  years  I  should  have  thought  with  you; 
but  — "  (then  abruptly  changing  his  voice,  he  continued)  — 
"Triumph,  did  you  say?  Sir,  I  have  had  three  sons:  they  are 
dead;  they  died  in  battle;  I  did  not  weep;  I  did  not  shed  a 
tear,  Sir, —  not  a  tear!  But  I  will  tell  you  when  I  did  weep. 
I  came  back,  an  old  man,  to  the  home  I  had  left  as  a  young 
one.  I  saw  the  counti-y  a  desert.  I  saw  that  the  noblesse 
had  become  tyrants ;  the  peasants  had  become  slaves, —  such 
slaves, —  savage  from  despair, —  even  when  they  were  most 
gay,  most  fearfully  gay,  from  constitution.  Sir,  I  saw  the 
priest  rack  and  grind,  and  the  seigneur  exact  and  pillage, 
and  the  tax-gatherer  squeeze  out  the  little  the  other  oppress- 
ors had  left;  anger,  discontent,  wretchedness,  famine,  a  ter- 
rible separation  between  one  order  of  people  and  another;  an 
incredible  indifference  to  the  miseries  their  desj^otism  caused 
on  the  part  of  the  aristocracy;  a  sullen  and  vindictive  hatred 
for  the  perpetration  of  those  miseries  on  the  part  of  the  peo- 
ple; all  places  sold  —  even  all  honours  priced  —  at  the  co\irt, 
which  was  become  a  public  market,  a  province  of  peasants, 
of  living  men  bartered  for  a  few  livres,  and  literally  passed 
from  one  hand  to  another,  to  be  squeezed  and  drained  anew 
by  each  new  possessor:  in  a  word.  Sir,  an  abandoned  court; 


298  DEVEREUX. 

an  unredeemed  noblesse, —  unredeemed,  Sir,  by  a  single  bene- 
fit which,  in  other  countries,  even  the  most  feudal,  the  vassal 
obtains  from  the  master;  a  peasantry  famished;  a  nation 
loaded  with  debt  which  it  sought  to  pay  by  tears, —  these  are 
what  I  saw, — these  are  the  consequences  of  that  heartless 
and  miserable  vanity  from  which  arose  wars  neither  useful 
nor  honourable, — these  are  the  real  components  of  that  tri- 
umph, as  you  term  it,  which  you  wonder  that  I  regret." 

Now,  although  it  was  impossible  to  live  at  the  court  of 
Louis  XIV.  in  his  latter  days,  and  not  feel,  from  the  general 
discontent  that  prevailed  even  there,  what  a  dark  truth  the 
old  soldier's  speech  contained,  yet  I  was  somewhat  surprised 
by  an  enthusiasm  so  little  military  in  a  person  whose  bearing 
and  air  were  so  conspicuously  martial. 

"  You  draw  a  melancholy  picture, "  said  I ;  "  and  the  wretched 
state  of  cvilture  which  the  lands  that  we  now  pass  through 
exhibit  is  a  witness  how  little  exaggeration  there  is  in  your 
colouring.  However,  these  are  but  the  ordinary  evils  of  war ; 
and,  if  your  country  endures  them,  do  not  forget  that  she  has 
also  inflicted  them.  Eemember  what  France  did  to  Holland, 
and  own  that  it  is  but  a  retribution  that  France  should  now 
find  that  the  injury  we  do  to  otliers  is  (among  nations  as  well 
as  individuals)  injury  to  ourselves." 

My  old  Frenchman  curled  his  mustaches  with  the  finger 
and  thumb  of  his  left  hand:  this  was  rather  too  subtile  a 
distinction  for  him. 

"That  may  be  true  enough,  Monsieur,"  said  he;  "but, 
viorhleu !  those  viaudits  Dutchmen  deserved  what  they  sus- 
tained at  our  hands.  No,  Sir,  no :  I  am  not  so  base  as  to  for- 
get the  glory  my  country  acquired,  though  I  weep  for  her 
wounds." 

"I  do  not  quite  understand  you.  Sir,"  said  I;  "did  you 
not  just  now  confess  that  the  wars  you  had  witnessed  were 
neither  honourable  nor  useful?  What  glory,  then,  was  to 
be  acquired  in  a  war  of  that  character,  even  though  it  was 
so  delightfully  animated  by  cutting  the  throats  of  those 
vimidits  Dutchmen?" 

"Sir,"  answered  the  Frenchman,  drawing  himself  up,  "you 


DEVEREUX.  299 

did  not  understand  me.  When  we  punished  Holland,  we  did 
rightly.      We  conquered." 

"  Whether  you  conquered  or  not  (for  the  good  folk  of  Hol- 
land are  not  so  sure  of  the  fact),"  answered  I,  "that  war  was 
the  most  unjust  in  Avhich  your  king  was  ever  engaged;  but 
pray,  tell  me,  Sir,  what  war  it  is  that  you  lament?  " 

The  Frenchman  frowned,  whistled,  put  out  his  under  lip, 
in  a  sort  of  angry  embarrassment,  and  then,  spurring  his  great 
horse  into  a  curvet,  said, — 

"  That  last  war  with  the  English !  " 

"Faith,"  said  I,  "that  was  the  justest  of  all." 

"  Just !  "  cried  the  Frenchman,  halting  abruptly  and  darting 
at  me  a  glance  of  lire,  "just!  no  more.  Sir!  no  more!  I  was 
at  Blenheim  and  at  Ramilies ! " 

As  the  old  warrior  said  the  last  words,  his  voice  faltered; 
and  though  I  could  not  help  inly  smiling  at  the  confusion  of 
ideas  by  which  wars  were  just  or  unjust,  according  as  they 
were  fortunate  or  not,  yet  I  respected  his  feelings  enough  to 
turn  away  my  face  and  remain  silent. 

"Yes,"  renewed  my  comrade,  colouring  with  evident  shame 
and  drawing  his  cocked  hat  over  his  brows,  "  yes,  I  received 
my  last  wound  at  Ramilies.  Then  my  eyes  were  opened  to 
the  horrors  of  war;  then  I  saw  and  cursed  the  evils  of  ambi- 
tion; then  I  resolved  to  retire  from  the  armies  of  a  king  who 
had  lost  forever  his  name,  his  glory,  and  his  country." 

Was  there  ever  a  better  type  of  the  French  nation  than  this 
old  soldier?  As  long  as  fortune  smiles  on  them,  it  is  "Mar- 
chons  an  diable  !  "  and  "  Vive  la  gloire  !  "  Directly  they  get 
beaten,  it  is  "  Ma  pauvre  patrie  ! "  and  "  Les  calamites  af- 
freuses  de  la  guerre  !  " 

"However,"  said  I,  "the  old  King  is  drawing  near  the  end 
of  his  days,  and  is  said  to  express  his  repentance  at  the  evils 
his  ambition  has  occasioned." 

The  old  soldier  shoved  back  his  hat,  and  offered  me  his 
snuff-box.     I  judged  by  this  that  he  was  a  little  mollified. 

"  Ah ! "  he  renewed,  after  a  pause,  "  ah !  times  are  sadly 
changed  since  the  year  1667;  when  the  young  King  —  he  was 
young  then  —  took  the  field  in  Flanders,  under  the  great  Tu- 


300  DEVEREUX. 

renne.  Sacristie  !  "Wliat  a  hero  he  looked  upon  his  white 
war-horse !  I  would  have  gone  —  ay,  and  the  meanest  and 
backwardest  soldier  in  the  camp  would  have  gone  —  into  the 
very  mouth  of  the  cannon  for  a  look  from  that  magnificent 
countenance,  or  a  word  from  that  mouth  which  knew  so  well 
what  words  were!  Sir,  there  was  in  the  war  of  '72,  when  we 
were  at  peace  with  Great  Britain,  an  English  gentleman,  then 
in  the  army,  afterwards  a  marshal  of  France :  I  remember,  as 
if  it  were  yesterda}^,  how  gallantly  he  behaved.  The  King 
sent  to  compliment  him  after  some  signal  proof  of  courage 
and  conduct,  and  asked  what  reward  he  would  have.  'Sire,' 
answered  the  Englishman,  'give  me  the  white  plume  you 
wore  this  day.'  From  that  moment  the  Englishman's  fortune 
was  made." 

"The  flattery  went  further  than  the  valour!  "  said  I,  smil- 
ing, as  I  recognized  in  the  anecdote  the  first  great  step  which 
my  father  had  made  in  the  ascent  of  fortune. 

"  Sacristie  !  "  cried  the  Frenchman,  "  it  was  no  flattery  then. 
We  so  idolized  the  King  that  mere  truth  would  have  seemed 
disloyalty;  and  we  no  more  thought  that  praise,  however  ex- 
travagant, was  adulation,  when  directed  to  him,  than  we 
should  have  thought  there  was  adulation  in  the  praise  we 
would  have  given  to  our  first  mistress.  But  it  is  all  changed 
now!     "Who  now  cares  for  the  old  priest-ridden  monarch?" 

And  upon  this  the  veteran,  having  conquered  the  momen- 
tary enthusiasm  which  the  remembrance  of  the  King's  earlier 
glories  had  excited,  transferred  all  his  genius  of  description 
to  the  opposite  side  of  the  question,  and  declaimed,  with 
great  energy,  upon  the  royal  vices  and  errors,  which  were 
so  charming  in  prosperity,  and  were  now  so  detestable  in 
adversity. 

While  we  were  thus  conversing  we  approached  Versailles. 
We  thought  the  vicinity  of  the  town  seemed  unusually  de- 
serted. We  entered  the  main  street :  crowds  were  assembled ; 
a  universal  murmur  was  heard ;  excitement  sat  on  every  coun- 
tenance. Here  an  old  crone  was  endeavouring  to  explain 
something,  evidently  beyond  his  comprehension,  to  a  child  of 
three  years  old,  who,  with  open  mouth  and  fixed  eyes,  seemed 


DEVEREUX.  301 

to  make  up  in  "wonder  for  the  want  of  intelligence;  there  a 
group  of  old  disbanded  soldiers  occupied  the  way,  and  seemed, 
from  their  muttered  conversations,  to  vent  a  sneer  and  a  jest 
at  a  priest  who,  with  downward  countenance  and  melancholy 
air,  was  hurrying  along. 

One  young  fellow  was  calling  out,  "  At  least,  it  is  a  holy- 
day,  and  I  shall  go  to  Paris ! "  and,  as  a  contrast  to  him,  an 
old  withered  artisan,  leaning  on  a  gold-headed  cane,  with 
sharp  avarice  eloquent  in  every  line  of  his  face,  muttered  out 
to  a  fellow-miser,  "No  business  to-day,  no  money,  John;  no 
money !  "  One  knot  of  women,  of  all  ages,  close  by  which  my 
horse  passed,  was  entirely  occupied  with  a  single  topic,  and 
that  so  vehemently  that  I  heard  the  leading  words  of  the  dis- 
cussion. "Mourning  —  becoming  —  what  fashion?  —  how 
long? — 0  Ciel!^^  Thus  do  follies  weave  themselves  round 
the  bier  of  death! 

"What  is  the  news,  gentlemen?"  said  I. 

"News!  what,  you  have  not  heard  it?  —  the  King  is  dead!  " 

"Louis  dead!  Louis  the  Great,  dead!"  cried  my  com- 
panion. 

"  Louis  the  Great?  "  said  a  sullen-looking  man, —  "  Louis  the 
persecutor!  " 

''  Ah,  he  's  a  Huguenot !  "  cried  another  with  haggard  cheeks 
and  hollow  eyes,  scowling  at  the  last  speaker,  "  Never  mind 
what  he  says :  the  King  was  right  when  he  refused  protection 
to  the  heretics ;  but  was  he  right  when  he  levied  such  taxes 
on  the  Catholics?" 

"Hush!  "  said  a  third —  "hush:  it  may  be  unsafe  to  speak; 
there  are  spies  about ;  for  my  part,  I  think  it  was  all  the  fault 
of  the  noblesse.''^ 

"  And  the  Favourites !  "  cried  a  soldier,  fiercely. 

"And  the  Harlots!  "  cried  a  hag  of  eighty. 

"  And  the  Priests !  "  muttered  the  Huguenot. 

"  And  the  Tax-gatherers !  "  added  the  lean  Catholic. 

We  rode  slowly  on.  My  comrade  was  evidently  and  pow- 
erfully affected. 

"So,  he  is  dead!"  said  he.  "Dead!  —  well,  well,  peace  be 
with  him!     He  conquered  in  Holland;    he  humbled  Genoa; 


302  DEVEREUX. 

he  dictated  to  Spain;  he  commanded  Conde  and  Turenne;  he 
—  Bah!  What  is  all  this!  "  then,  turning  abruptly  to  me,  my 
companion  cried,  "I  did  not  speak  against  the  King,  did  I, 
Sir?" 

"Xot  much." 

"I  am  glad  of  that, — yes,  very  glad!"  And  the  old  man 
glared  fiercely  round  on  a  troop  of  boys  who  were  audibly 
abusing  the  dead  lion. 

"  I  would  have  bit  out  my  tongue  rather  than  it  had  joined 
in  the  base  joy  of  these  yelping  curs.  Heavens!  when  I 
think  what  shouts  I  have  heard  when  the  name  of  that  man, 
then  deemed  little  less  than  a  god,  was  but  breathed!  —  and 
now  —  why  do  you  look  at  me,  Sir?  My  eyes  are  moist;  I 
know  it,  Sir, —  I  know  it.  The  old  battered  broken  soldier, 
who  made  his  first  campaigns  when  that  which  is  now  dust 
was  the  idol  of  France  and  the  pupil  of  Turenne,  —  the  old 
soldier's  eyes  shall  not  be  dry,  though  there  is  not  another 
tear  shed  in  the  whole  of  this  great  empire." 

"Your  three  sons?"  said  I;  "you  did  not  weep  for  them?" 

"iS!"o,  Sir;  I  loved  them  when  I  was  old;  but  I  loved  Louis 
when  I  was  young  !  " 

"Your  oppressed  and  pillaged  country?  "  said  I,  "think  of 
that." 

"No,  Sir,  I  will  not  think  of  it!  "  cried  the  old  warrior  in  a 
passion.     "I  will  not  think  of  it  —  to-day,  at  least." 

"  You  are  right,  my  brave  friend ;  in  the  grave  let  us  bury 
even  public  wrongs;  but  let  us  not  bury  their  remembrance. 
May  the  joy  we  read  in  every  face  that  we  pass  —  joy  at  the 
death  of  one  whom  idolatry  once  almost  seemed  to  deem  im- 
mortal —  be  a  lesson  to  future  kings !  " 

My  comrade  did  not  immediately  answer;  but,  after  a 
pause  and  we  had  turned  our  backs  upon  the  town,  he  said, — 

"Joy,  Sir, — you  spoke  of  joy!  Yes,  we  are  Frenchmen: 
we  forgive  our  rulers  easily  for  private  vices  and  petty  faults ; 
but  we  never  forgive  them  if  they  commit  the  greatest  of 
faults,   and  suffer  a  stain  to  rest  upon  — " 

"What?"  I  asked,  as  my  comrade  broke  off. 

"  The  national  glory,  Monsieur !  "  said  he. 


DEVEREUX.  303 

"You  have  hit  it,"  said  I,  smiling  at  the  turgid  sentiment 
which  was  so  really  and  deeply  felt.  "  And  had  you  written 
folios  upon  the  character  of  your  countrymen,  you  could  not 
have  expressed  it  better." 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

IN    WHICH     THERE    IS     KEASON     TO     FEAR    THAT    PRINCES     ARE 
NOT    INVARIABLY    FREE    FROM    HUMAN    PECCADILLOES. 

On  entering  Paris,  my  veteran  fellow-traveller  took  leave 
of  me,  and  I  proceeded  to  my  hotel.  When  the  first  excite- 
ment of  my  thoughts  was  a  little  subsided,  and  after  some 
feelings  of  a  more  public  nature,  I  began  to  consider  what 
influence  the  King's  death  was  likely  to  have  on  my  own 
fortunes.  I  could  not  but  see  at  a  glance  that  for  the  cause 
of  the  Chevalier,  and  the  destiny  of  his  present  exertions 
in  Scotland,  it  was  the  most  fatal  event  that  could  have 
occurred. 

The  balance  of  power  in  the  contending  factions  of  France 
would,  I  foresaw,  lie  entirely  between  the  Duke  of  Orleans 
and  the  legitimatized  children  of  the  late  king:  the  latter, 
closely  leagued  as  they  were  with  Madame  de  Maintenon, 
could  not  be  much  disposed  to  consider  the  welfare  of  Count 
Devereux;  and  my  wishes,  therefore,  naturally  settled  on  the 
former.  I  was  not  doomed  to  a  long  suspense.  Every  one 
knows  that  the  very  next  day  the  Duke  of  Orleans  appeared 
before  Parliament,  and  was  proclaimed  Regent;  that  the  will 
of  the  late  King  was  set  aside;  and  that  the  Duke  of  Maine 
suddenly  became  as  low  in  power  as  he  had  always  been  des- 
picable in  intellect.  A  little  hubbub  ensued :  people  in  gen- 
eral laughed  at  the 'Regent's  Jinesse;  and  the  more  sagacious 
admired  the  courage  and  address  of  which  the  Jinesae  was 
composed.     The  Regent's  mother  wrote  a  letter  of  sixty-nine 


304  DEVEREUX. 

pages  about  it;  and  the  Ducliess  of  Maine  boxed  tlie  Duke's 
ears  very  heartily  for  not  being  as  clever  as  herself.  All 
Paris  teemed  with  joyous  forebodings;  and  the  Eegent, 
whom  every  one  some  time  ago  had  suspected  of  poisoning 
his  cousins,  every  one  now  declared  to  be  the  most  perfect 
prince  that  could  possibly  be  imagined,  and  the  very  picture 
of  Henri  Quatre  in  goodness  as  well  as  physiognomy.  Three 
days  after  this  event,  one  happened  to  myself  with  which  my 
public  career  may  be  said  to  commence. 

I  had  spent  the  evening  at  a  house  in  a  distant  part  of 
Paris,  and,  invited  by  the  beauty  of  the  night,  had  dismissed 
my  carriage,  and  was  walking  home  alone  and  on  foot.  Oc- 
cupied with  my  reflections,  and  not  very  well  acquainted 
with  the  dangerous  and  dark  streets  of  Paris,  in  which  it  was 
very  rare  for  those  who  have  carriages  to  wander  on  foot,  I 
insensibly  strayed  from  my  proper  direction.  When  I  first 
discovered  this  disagreeable  fact,  I  was  in  a  filthy  and  obscure 
fane  rather  than  street,  which  I  did  not  remember  having 
ever  honoured  with  my  presence  before.  While  I  was  paus- 
ing in  the  vain  hope  and  anxious  endeavour  to  shape  out 
some  imaginary  chart  —  some  "map  of  the  mind,"  by  which 
to  direct  my  bewildered  course  —  I  heard  a  confused  noise 
proceed  from  another  lane  at  right  angles  with  the  one  in 
which  I  then  was.  I  listened:  the  sound  became  more  dis- 
tinct; I  recognized  human  voices  in  loud  and  angry  alterca- 
tion; a  moment  more  and  there  was  a  scream.  Though  I  did 
not  attach  much  importance  to  the  circumstance,  I  thought  I 
might  as  well  approach  nearer  to  the  quarter  of  noise.  I 
walked  to  the  door  of  the  house  from  which  the  scream  pro- 
ceeded; it  was  very  small  and  mean.  Just  as  I  neared  it,  a 
window  was  thrown  open,  and  a  voice  cried,  "Help!  help! 
for  God's  sake,  help!" 

"What's  the  matter?"  I  asked. 

"  Whoever  you  are,  save  us !  "  cried  the  voice,  "  and  that 
instantly,  or  we  shall  be  murdered ; "  and,  the  moment  after, 
the  voice  ceased  abruptly,  and  was  succeeded  by  the  clashing 
of  swords. 

I  beat  loudly  at  the  door;  I  shouted  out, —  no  answer;  the 


DEVEREUX.  305 

scuffle  within  seemed  to  increase.  I  saw  a  small  blind  alley 
to  the  left;  one  of  the  unfortunate  women  to  whom  such 
places  are  homes  was  standing  in  it. 

"What  possibility  is  there  of  entering  the  house?"  I  asked. 

"Oh!"  said  she,  "it  does  not  matter;  it  is  not  the  first 
time  gentlemen  have  cut  each  other's  throats  there ^ 

"What!  is  it  a  house  of  bad  repute? " 

"Yes;  and  where  there  are  bullies  who  wear  knives,  and 
take  purses,  as  well  as  ladies  who  — " 

"  Good  heavens ! "  cried  I,  interrupting  her,  "  there  is  no 
time  to  be  lost.  Is  there  no  way  of  entrance  but  at  this 
door?" 

"  Yes,  if  you  are  bold  enough  to  enter  at  another !  " 

"Where?" 

"Down  this  alley." 

Immediately  I  entered  the  alley;  the  woman  pointed  to 
a  small,  dark,  narrow  flight  of  stairs;  I  ascended;  the  sounds 
increased  in  loudness.  I  mounted  to  the  second  flight; 
a  light  streamed  from  a  door;  the  clashing  of  swords  was 
distinctly  audible  within;  I  broke  open  the  door,  and  found 
myself  a  witness  and  intruder  on  a  scene  at  once  ludicrous 
and  fearful. 

A  table,  covered  with  bottles  and  the  remnants  of  a  meal, 
was  in  the  centre  of  the  room;  several  articles  of  women's 
dress  were  scattered  over  the  floor;  two  women  of  unequivo- 
cal description  were  clinging  to  a  man  richly  dressed,  and 
who  having  fortunately  got  behind  an  immense  chair,  that 
had  been  overthrown  probably  in  the  scuffle,  managed  to  keep 
off  with  awkward  address  a  fierce-looking  fellow,  who  had 
less  scope  for  the  ability  of  his  sword-arm,  from  the  circum- 
stance of  his  attempting  to  pull  away  the  chair  with  his  left 
hand.  Whenever  he  stooped  to  effect  this  object  his  antago- 
nist thrust  at  him  very  vigorously,  and  had  it  not  been  for 
the  embarrassment  his  female  enemies  occasioned  him,  the 
latter  would,  in  all  probability,  have  despatched  or  disabled 
his  besieger.  This  fortified  gentleman,  being  backed  by  the 
window,  I  immediately  concluded  to  be  the  person  who  had 
called  to  me  for  assistance. 

20 


306  DEVEREUX. 

At  the  other  corner  of  the  apartment  was  another  cavalier, 
who  used  his  sword  with  singular  skill,  but  who,  being  hard 
pressed  by  two  lusty  fellows,  was  forced  to  employ  that  skill 
rather  in  defence  than  attack.  Altogether,  the  disordered 
appearance  of  the  room,  the  broken  bottles,  the  fumes  with 
which  the  hot  atmosphere  teemed,  the  evident  profligacy  of 
the  two  women,  the  half-undressed  guise  of  the  cavaliers,  and 
the  ruffian  air  and  collected  ferocity  of  the  assailants,  plainly 
denoted  that  it  was  one  of  those  perilous  festivals  of  pleasure 
in  which  imprudent  gallants  were  often,  in  that  day,  betrayed 
by  treacherous  Delilahs  into  the  hands  of  Philistines,  who, 
not  contented  with  stripping  them  for  the  sake  of  plunder, 
frequently  murdered  them  for  the  sake  of  secrecy. 

Having  taken  a  rapid  but  satisfactory  survey  of  the  scene, 
I  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  make  any  preparatory  parley. 
I  threw  myself  upon  the  nearest  bravo  with  so  hearty  a  good 
will  that  I  ran  him  through  the  body  before  he  had  recovered 
his  surprise  at  my  appearance.  This  somewhat  startled  the 
other  two ;  they  drew  back  and  demanded  quarter. 

"Quarter,  indeed!  "  cried  the  farther  cavalier,  releasing  him- 
self from  his  astonished  female  assailants,  and  leaping  nimbly 
over  his  bulwark  into  the  centre  of  the  room,  "quarter,  in- 
deed, rascally  ivrognes!  No;  it  is  our  turn  now!  and,  by 
Joseph  of  Arimathea!  you  shall  sup  with  Pilate  to-night." 
So  saying,  he  pressed  his  old  assailant  so  fiercely  that,  after 
a  short  contest,  the  latter  retreated  till  he  had  backed  him- 
self to  the  door;  he  then  suddenly  turned  round,  and  vanished 
in  a  twinkling.  The  third  and  remaining  ruffian  was  far 
from  thinking  himself  a  match  for  three  men ;  he  fell  on  his 
knees,  and  implored  mercy.  However,  the  c i-dev ant  BW&t^iwQV 
of  the  besieged  chair  was  but  little  disposed  to  afford  him  the 
clemency  he  demanded,  and  approached  the  crestfallen  bravo 
with  so  grim  an  air  of  truculent  delight,  brandishing  his 
sword  and  uttering  the  most  terrible  threats,  that  there  Avould 
have  been  small  doubt  of  the  final  catastrophe  of  the  trem- 
bling bully,  had  not  the  other  gallant  thrown  himself  in  the 
way  of  his  friend. 

"Put  up  thy  sword,"  said  he,  laughing,  and  yet  with  an  air 


DEVEREUX.  307 

of  command;  "we  must  not  court  crime,  and  then  punish  it." 
Then,  turning  to  the  bully,  he  said,  "Kise,  8ir  Rascal!  the 
devil  spares  thee  a  little  longer,  and  this  gentleman  will  not 
disobey  his  as  well  as  th?/  master's  wishes.     Begone !  " 

The  fellow  wanted  no  second  invitation:  he  sprang  to  his 
legs,  and  to  the  door.  The  disappointed  cavalier  assisted  his 
descent  down  the  stairs  with  a  kick  that  would  have  done 
the  work  of  the  sword  to  any  flesh  not  accustomed  to  similar 
applications.  Putting  up  his  rapier,  the  milder  gentleman 
then  turned  to  the  ladies^  who  lay  huddled  together  under 
shelter  of  the  chair  which  their  intended  victim  had 
deserted. 

"Ah,  Mesdames,"  said  he,  gravely,  and  with  a  low  bow, 
"  I  am  sorry  for  your  disappointment.  As  long  as  you  con- 
tented yourselves  with  robbery,  it  were  a  shame  to  have  in- 
terfered with  your  innocent  amusements;  but  cold  steel 
becomes  serious.  Monsieur  D'Argenson  will  favour  you 
with  some  inquiries  to-morrow ;  at  present,  I  recommend  you 
to  empty  what  remains  in  the  bottle.  Adieu!  Monsieur, 
to  whom  I  am  so  greatly  indebted,  honour  me  with  your  arm 
down  these  stairs.  You"  (turning  to  his  friend)  "will  fol- 
low us,  and  keep  a  sharp  look  behind.  Allans  !  Vive  Henri 
Quatre  !  " 

As  we  descended  the  dark  and  rough  stairs,  my  new  com- 
panion said,  "  What  an  excellent  antidote  to  the  effects  of  the 
vin  de  champagne  is  this  same  fighting!  I  feel  as  if  I  had 
not  tasted  a  drop  these  six  hours.  What  fortune  brought  you 
hither.   Monsieur?"    addressing  me. 

We  were  now  at  the  foot  of  the  first  flight  of  stairs ;  a  high 
and  small  window  admitted  the  moonlight,  and  we  saw  each 
other's  faces  clearly. 

"That  fortune,"  answered  I,  looking  at  my  acquaintance 
steadily,  but  with  an  expression  of  profound  respect, —  "that 
fortune  which  w^atches  over  kingdoms,  and  which,  I  trust, 
may  in  no  place  or  circumstance  be  a  deserter  from  your 
Highness." 

"Highness!"  said  my  companion,  colouring,  and  darting  a 
glance,  first  at  his  friend  and  then  at  me.     "Hist,  Sir,  you 


308  DEVEREUX. 

know  me,  then, —  speak  low, — you  know,  then,  for  whom  you 
have  drawn  your  sword?" 

"  Yes,  so  please  your  Highness.  I  have  drawn  it  this  night 
for  Philip  of  Orleans ;  I  trust  yet,  in  another  scene  and  for 
another  cause,  to  draw  it  for  the  Eegent  of  France !  " 


CHAPTER   IX. 

A   PRINCE,    AN   AUDIENCE,    AND    A   SECRET   EMBASSY. 

The  Regent  remained  silent  for  a  moment:  he  then  said  in 
an  altered  and  grave  voice,  "  C'est  Hen,  Monsieur  !  I  thank 
you  for  the  distinction  you  have  made.  It  were  not  amiss  " 
(lie  added,  turning  to  his  comrade)  "  that  you  would  now  and 
then  deign,  henceforward,  to  make  the  same  distinction.  But 
this  is  neither  time  nor  place  for  parlance.     On,  gentlemen !  " 

We  left  the  house,  passed  into  the  street,  and  moved  on 
rapidly,  and  in  silence,  till  the  constitutional  gayety  of  the 
Duke  recovering  its  ordinary  tone,  he  said  with  a  laugh, — 

"Well,  now,  it  is  a  little  hard  that  a  man  who  has  been 
toiling  all  day  for  the  public  good  should  feel  ashamed  of 
indulging  for  an  hour  or  two  at  night  in  his  private  amuse- 
ments ;  but  so  it  is.  'Once  grave,  always  grave !'  is  the  maxim 
of  the  world;  eh,  Chatran?" 

The  companion  bowed.  "  'T  is  a  very  good  saying,  please 
your  Royal  Highness,  and  is  intended  to  warn  us  from  the 
sin  of  ever  being  grave ! " 

"Ha!  ha!  you  have  a  great  turn  for  morality,  my  good 
Chatran ! "  cried  the  Duke,  "  and  would  draw  a  rule  for  con- 
duct out  of  the  wickedest  hon  mot  of  Dubois.  Monsieur,  par- 
don me,  but  I  have  seen  you  before :  you  are  the  Count  —  " 

"Devereux,  Monseigneur." 

"  True,  true  I  I  have  heard  much  of  you :  you  are  intimate 
with  Milord  Bolingbroke.  Would  that  I  had  fifty  friends 
like  him." 


DEVEREUX.  309 

*' Monseigneur  would  have  little  trouble  in  his  regency  if 
his  wish  were  realized,"  said  Chatran. 

"  Tant  mieux,  so  long  as  I  had  little  odium,  as  well  as  little 
trouble, —  a  happiness  which,  thanks  to  you  and  Dubois,  I  am 
not  likely  to  enjoy, — but  there  is  the  carriage!  " 

And  the  Duke  pointed  to  a  dark,  plain  carriage,  which  we 
had  suddenly  come  upon. 

"Count  Devereux,"  said  the  merry  Regent,  "you  will  enter; 
my  duty  requires  that,  at  this  seductive  hour,  I  should  see  a 
young  gentleman  of  your  dangerous  age  safely  lodged  at  his 
hotel!" 

We  entered,  Chatran  gave  the  orders,  and  we  drove  off 
rapidly. 

The  Regent  hummed  a  tune,  and  his  two  companions  lis- 
tened to  it  in  respectful  silence. 

"Well,  well.  Messieurs,"  said  he,  bursting  out  at  last  into 
open  voice,  "  I  will  ever  believe,  in  future,  that  the  gods  do 
look  benignantly  on  us  worshippers  of  the  Alma  Venus!  Do 
you  know  much  of  Tibullus,  Monsieur  ^Devereux?  And  can 
you  assist  my  memory  with  the  continuation  of  the  line  — 

" '  Quisquis  amore  tenetur,  eat  — ' " 

" '  tutusque  sacerque 
Qualibet,  insidias  non  timuisse  decet,'  "  ^ 

answered  I. 

"  Bon  !  "  cried  the  Duke.  "  I  love  a  gentleman,  from  my  very 
soul,  when  he  can  both  fight  well  and  read  Latin !  I  hate  a 
man  who  is  merely  a  winebibber  and  blade-drawer.  Bj'  Saint 
Louis,  though  it  is  an  excellent  thing  to  fill  the  stomach,  es- 
pecially with  Tokay,  yet  there  is  no  reason  in  the  world  why 
we  should  not  fill  the  head  too.  But  here  we  are.  Adieu, 
Monsieur  Devereux:    we  shall  see  you  at  the  Palace." 

I  expressed  my  thanks  briefly  at  the  Regent's  condescen- 
sion, descended  from  the  carriage  (which  instantly  drove  off 
with  renewed  celerity),  and  once  more  entered  my  hotel. 

1  "  Wniosoever  is  possessed  by  Love  may  go  safe  and  holy  withersoever  he 
likes.    It  becomes  not  him  to  fear  snares."     ' 


310  DEVEREUX. 

Two  or  three  days  after  my  adventure  with  the  Regent,  I 
thought  it  expedient  to  favour  that  eccentric  prince  with  a 
visit.  During  the  early  part  of  his  regency,  it  is  well  known 
how  successfully  he  combated  with  his  natural  indolence, 
and  how  devotedly  his  mornings  were  surrendered  to  the  toils 
of  his  new  office ;  but  when  pleasure  has  grown  habit,  it  re- 
quires a  stronger  mind  than  that  of  Philippe  le  Debonnaire 
to  give  it  a  permanent  successor  in  business.  Pleasure  is,  in- 
deed, like  the  genius  of  the  fable,  the  most  useful  of  slaves, 
while  you  subdue  it;  the  most  intolerable  of  tyrants  the 
moment  your  negligence  suffers  it  to  subdue  you. 

The  hours  in  which  the  Prince  gave  audience  to  the  com- 
rades of  his  lighter  rather  than  graver  occupations  were 
those  immediately  before  and  after  his  levee.  I  thought 
that  this  would  be  the  best  season  for  me  to  present  myself. 
Accordingly,  one  morning  after  the  levee,  I  repaired  to  his 
palace. 

The  ante-chamber  was  already  crowded.  I  sat  myself 
quietly  down  in  one  corner  of  the  room,  and  looked  upon  the 
motley  groups  around.  I  smiled  inly  as  they  reminded  me  of 
the  scenes  my  own  anteroom,  in  my  younger  daj'S  of  folly 
and  fortune,  was  wont  to  exhibit;  the  same  heterogeneous 
assemblage  (only  upon  a  grander  scale)  of  the  ministers  to 
the  physical  appetites  and  the  mental  tastes.  There  was  the 
fretting  and  impudent  mountebank,  side  by  side  with  the 
gentle  and  patient  scholar;  the  harlot's  envoy  and  the  priest's 
messenger;  the  agent  of  the  police  and  the  licensed  breaker 
of  its  laws;  there  —  but  what  boots  a  more  prolix  description? 
What  is  the  anteroom  of  a  great  man,  who  has  many  wants 
and  many  tastes,  but  a  panorama  of  the  blended  disparities  of 
this  compounded  world? 

While  I  was  moralizing,  a  gentleman  suddenly  thrust  his 
head  out  of  a  door,  and  appeared  to  reconnoitre  us.  Instantly 
the  crowd  swept  up  to  him.  I  thought  I  might  as  well  follow 
the  general  example,  and  pushing  aside  some  of  my  fellow- 
loiterers,  I  presented  myself  and  my  name  to  the  gentleman, 
with  the  most  ingratiating  air  I  could  command. 

The  gentleman,  who  was  tolerably  civil  for  a  great  man's 


DEVEREUX.  31 1 

great  man,  promised  that  my  visit  should  be  immediately 
announced  to  the  Prince;  and  then,  with  the  politest  bow 
imaginable,  slapped  the  door  in  my  face.  After  I  had  waited 
about  seven  or  eight  minutes  longer,  the  gentleman  re-ap- 
peared, singled  me  from  the  crowd,  and  desired  me  to  follow 
him;  I  passed  through  another  room,  and  was  presently  in 
the  Regent's  presence. 

I  was  rather  startled  when  I  saw,  by  the  morning  light, 
and  in  deshabille,  the  person  of  that  royal  martyr  to  dissipa- 
tion. His  countenance  was  red,  but  bloated,  and  a  weakness 
in  his  eyes  added  considerably  to  the  jaded  and  haggard  ex- 
pression of  his  features.  A  proportion  of  stomach  rather  in- 
clined to  corjDulency  seemed  to  betray  the  taste  for  the 
pleasures  of  the  table,  which  the  most  radically  coarse,  and 
yet  (strange  to  say)  the  most  generally  accomplished  and 
really  good-natured  of  royal  profligates,  combined  with  his 
other  qualifications.  He  was  yawning  very  elaborately  over 
a  great  heap  of  papers  when  I  entered.  He  finished  his  yawn 
(as  if  it  were  too  brief  and  too  precious  a  recreation  to  lose), 
and  then  said,  "Good  morning,  Monsieur  Devereux;  I  am 
glad  that  you  have  found  me  out  at  last." 

"I  was  afraid,  Monseigneur,  of  appearing  an  intruder  on 
your  presence,  by  offering  my  homage  to  you  before." 

*'So  like  my  good  fortune,"  said  the  Regent,  turning  to  a 
man  seated  at  another  table  at  some  distance,  whose  wily, 
astute  countenance,  piercing  eye,  and  licentious  expression 
of  lip  and  brow,  indicated  at  once  the  ability  and  vice  which 
composed  his  character.  "  So  like  my  good  fortune,  is  it  not, 
Dubois?  If  ever  I  meet  with  a  tolerably  pleasant  fellow, 
who  does  not  disgrace  me  by  his  birth  or  reputation,  he  is  al- 
ways so  terribly  afraid  of  intruding!  and  whenever  I  pick  up 
a  respectable  personage  without  wit,  or  a  wit  without  respec- 
tability, he  attaches  himself  to  me  like  a  burr,  and  can't  live 
a  day  without  inquiring  after  my  health." 

Dubois  smiled,  bowed,  but  did  not  answer,  and  I  saw  that 
his  look  was  bent  darkly  and  keenly  upon  me. 

"  Well, "  said  the  Prince,  "  what  think  you  of  our  opera, 
Count  Devereux?    It  beats  your  English  one  —  eh?" 


312  DEVEREUX. 

"Ah,  certainly,  Monseigneur;  ours  is  but  a  reflection  of 
yours." 

"So  says  your  friend.  Milord  Bolingbroke,  a  person  wlio 
knows  about  operas  almost  as  much  as  I  do,  Avhich,  vanity 
apart,  is  saying  a  great  deal.  I  should  like  very  well  to  visit 
England;  what  should  I  learn  best  there?  In  Spain  (I  shall 
always  love  Spain)  I  learned  to  cook." 

"Monseigneur,  I  fear,"  answered  I,  smiling,  "could  obtain 
but  little  additional  knowledge  in  that  art  in  our  barbarous 
country.  A  few  rude  and  imperfect  inventions  have,  indeed, 
of  late  years,  astonished  the  cultivators  of  the  science;  but 
the  night  of  ignorance  rests  still  upon  its  main  principles  and 
leading  truths.  Perhaps,  what  Monseigneur  would  find  best 
worth  studying  in  England  would  be  —  the  women." 

"Ah,  the  women  all  over  the  world!"  cried  the  Duke, 
laughing;  "but  I  hear  your  belles  Anglaises  are  sentimental, 
and  love  a  l' Arcadienne." 

"It  is  true  at  present;  but  who  shall  say  how  far  Mon- 
seigneur's  example  might  enlighten  them  in  a  train  of  thought 
so  erroneous?" 

"True.  Nothing  like  example,  eh,  Dubois?  What  would 
Philip  of  Orleans  have  been  but  for  thee?" 

"'L'exemple  souvent  n'est  qu'un  miroir  trompeur; 
Quelquefois  I'un  se  brise  oil  I'autre  s'est  sauve, 
Et  par  oil  I'un  pe'rit,  un  autre  est  conserve','  "  ^ 

answered  Dubios,  oiit  of  "Cinna." 

"Corneille  is  right,"  rejoined  the  Regent.  "After  all,  to 
do  thee  justice,  mon  petit  Abb6,  example  has  little  to  do  with 
corrupting  us.  Nature  pleads  the  cause  of  pleasure  as  Hy- 
perides  pleaded  that  of  Phryne.  She  has  no  need  of  elo- 
quence; she  unveils  the  bosom  of  her  client,  and  the  client  is 
acquitted." 

"  IMonseigneur  shows  at  least  that  he  has  learned  to  profit 
by  my  humble  instructions  in  the  classics,"  said  Dubois. 

^  "Example  is  often  but  a  deceitful  mirror,  where  sometimes  one  destroys 
himself,  wliile  another  comes  off  safe ;  and  where  one  perishes,  another  is 
preserved." 


DEVEREUX.  813 

The  Duke  did  not  answer.  I  turned  my  eyes  to  some  draw- 
ings on  the  table ;  I  expressed  my  admiration  of  them.  "  They 
are  mine, "  said  the  Kegent.  *'  Ah !  I  should  have  been  much 
more  accomplished  as  a  private  gentleman  than  I  fear  I  ever 
shall  be  as  a  public  man  of  toil  and  business.  Business  — 
bah!  But  Necessity  is  the  only  real  sovereign  in  the  world, 
the  only  despot  for  whom  there  is  no  law.  What!  are  you 
going  already,   Count  Devereux?" 

"  Monseigneur's  anteroom  is  crowded  with  less  fortunate 
persons  than  myself,  whose  sins  of  envy  and  covetousness  I 
am  now  answerable  for." 

"  Ah  —  well !  I  must  hear  the  poor  devils ;  the  only  pleas- 
ure I  have  is  in  seeing  how  easily  I  can  make  them  happy. 
"Would  to  Heaven,  Dubois,  that  one  could  govern  a  great 
kingdom  only  by  fair  words!  Count  Devereux,  you  have 
seen  me  to-day  as  my  acquaintance;  see  me  again  as  my 
petitioner.     Bon  jotir,  Monsieur." 

And  I  retired,  very  well  pleased  with  my  reception;  from 
that  time,  indeed,  during  the  rest  of  my  short  stay  at  Paris, 
the  Prince  honoured  me  with  his  especial  favour.  But  I  have 
dwelt  too  long  on  my  sojourn  at  the  French  court.  The  per- 
sons whom  I  have  described,  and  who  alone  made  that  so- 
journ memorable,   must  be  my  apology. 

One  day  I  was  honoured  by  a  visit  from  the  Abbe  Dubois. 
After  a  short  conversation  upon  indifferent  things,  he  accosted 
me  thus :  — 

"You  are  aware.  Count  Devereux,  of  the  partiality  which 
the  Regent  has  conceived  towards  you.  Fortunate  would  it 
be  for  the  Prince  "  (here  Dubois  elevated  his  brows  with  an 
ironical  and  arch  expression),  "so  good  by  disposition,  so  in- 
jured by  example,  if  his  partiality  had  been  more  frequently 
testified  towards  gentlemen  of  your  merit.  A  mission  of  con- 
siderable importance,  and  one  demanding  great  personal  ad- 
dress, gives  his  Royal  Highness  an  opportunity  of  testifying 
his  esteem  for  you.  He  honoured  me  with  a  conference  on 
the  subject  yesterday,  and  has  now  commissioned  me  to 
explain  to  you  the  technical  objects  of  this  mission,  and  to 
offer  to  you  the  honour  of  undertaking  it.     Should  you  accept 


314  DEVEREUX. 

the   proposals,  you   will  -svait  upon  his  Highness  before  his 
levee  to-morrow." 

Dubois  then  proceeded,  in  the  clear,  rapid  manner  peculiar 
to  him,  to  comment  on  the  state  of  Europe.  "For  France," 
said  he,  in  concluding  his  sketch,  "peace  is  absolutely  neces- 
sary. A  drained  treasury,  an  exhausted  country,  require  it. 
You  see,  from  what  I  have  said,  that  Spain  and  England  are 
the  principal  quarters  from  which  we  are  to  dread  hostilities. 
Spain  Ave  must  guard  against;  England  we  must  propitiate: 
the  latter  object  is  easy  in  England  in  any  case,  whether 
James  or  George  be  uppermost.  For  whoever  is  king  in  Eng- 
land will  have  quite  enough  to  do  at  home  to  make  him  agree 
willingly  enough  to  peace  abroad.  The  former  requires  a 
less  simple  and  a  more  enlarged  policy.  I  fear  the  ambition 
of  the  Queen  of  Spain  and  the  turbulent  genius  of  her  minion 
Alberoni.  We  must  fortify  ourselves  by  new  forms  of  alli- 
ance, at  various  courts,  which  shall  at  once  defend  us  and 
intimidate  our  enemies.  We  wish  to  employ  some  nobleman 
of  ability  and  address,  on  a  secret  mission  to  Kussia:  will 
you  be  that  person?  Your  absence  from  Paris  will  be  but 
short;  you  will  see  a  very  droll  country,  and  a  very  droll  sov- 
ereign; you  will  return  hither,  doubly  the  rage,  and  with  a 
just  claim  to  more  important  employment  hereafter.  What 
say  you  to  the  proposal?  " 

"I  must  hear  more,"  said  I,  "before  I  decide." 
The  Abbe  renewed.  It  is  needless  to  repeat  all  the  partic- 
ulars of  the  commission  that  he  enumerated.  Suffice  it  that, 
after  a  brief  consideration,  I  accepted  the  honoiir  proposed 
to  me.  The  Abb6  wished  me  joy,  relapsed  into  his  ordinary 
strain  of  coarse  levity  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then,  remind- 
ing me  that  I  was  to  attend  the  Regent  on  the  morrow,  de- 
parted. It  was  easy  to  see  that  in  the  mind  of  that  subtle 
and  crafty  ecclesiastic,  with  whose  manoeuvres  private  in- 
trigues were  always  blended  with  public,  this  offer  of  employ- 
ment veiled  a  desire  to  banish  me  from  the  immediate  vicinity 
of  the  good-natured  Regent,  whose  favour  the  aspiring  Abbe 
wished  at  that  exact  moment  exclusively  to  monopolize. 
Mere  men  of  pleasure  he  knew  would  not  interfere  with  his 


DEVEREUX.  315 

aims  upon  the  Prince;  mere  men  of  business  still  less:  but  a 
man  Avho  was  thought  to  combine  the  capacities  of  both,  and 
who  was  moreover  distinguished  by  the  Regent,  he  deemed 
a  more  dangerous  rival  than  the  inestimable  person  thus 
suspected  really  was. 

However,  I  cared  little  for  the  honest  man's  motives.  Ad- 
venture to  me  had  always  greater  charms  than  dissipation, 
and  it  was  far  more  agreeable  to  the  nature  of  my  ambition, 
to  win  distinction  by  any  honourable  method,  than  by  favour- 
itism at  a  court  so  hollow,  so  unprincipled,  and  so  grossly 
licentious  as  that  of  the  Kegeut.  There  to  be  the  most  suc- 
cessful courtier  was  to  be  the  most  amusing  profligate.  Alas, 
when  the  heart  is  away  from  its  objects,  and  the  taste  revolts 
at  its  excess.  Pleasure  is  worse  than  palling:  it  is  a  torture! 
and  the  devil  in  Jonson's  play  did  not  perhaps  greatly  belie 
the  truth  when  he  averred  "that  the  pains  in  his  native  coun- 
try were  pastimes  to  the  life  of  a  person  of  fashion." 

The  Duke  of  Orleans  received  me  the  next  morning  with 
more  than  his  wonted  bonhomie.  What  a  pity  that  so  good- 
natured  a  prince  should  have  been  so  bad  a  man!  He  en- 
larged more  easily  and  carelessly  than  his  worthy  preceptor 
had  done  vipon  the  several  points  to  be  observed  in  my  mis- 
sion; then  condescendingly  told  me  he  was  very  sorry  to  lose 
me  from  his  court,  and  asked  me,  at  all  events,  before  I  left 
Paris,  to  be  a  guest  at  one  of  his  select  suppers.  I  appreci- 
ated this  honour  at  its  just  value.  To  these  suppers  none 
were  asked  but  the  Prince's  chums,  or  roues,^  as  he  was 
pleased  to  call  them.  As,  entre  nnus,  these  chums  were  for 
the  most  part  the  most  good-for-nothing  people  in  the  king- 
dom, I  could  not  but  feel  highly  flattered  at  being  deemed,  by 
so  deep  a  judge  of  character  as  the  Regent,  worthy  to  join 
them.  I  need  not  say  that  the  invitation  was  eagerly  ac- 
cepted, nor  that  I  left  Philippe  le  Debonnaire  impressed  with 
the  idea  of  his  being  the  most  admirable  person  in  Europe. 

1  The  term  roue,  now  so  comprehensive,  was  first  given  by  the  Regent  to 
a  select  number  of  liis  friends ;  according  to  them,  liecause  they  wouUi  be 
broken  on  the  wheel  for  his  sake  ;  according  to  himself,  because  they  deserved 
to  be  so  broken.  —  Ed. 


316  DEVEREUX. 

Wliat  a  fool  a  great  man  is  if  lie  does  not  study  to  be  affable : 
weigh  a  prince's  condescension  in  one  scale,  and  all  the  cardi- 
nal virtues  in  the  other,  and  the  condescension  will  outweigh 
them  all !  The  Eegent  of  France  ruined  his  country  as  much 
as  he  well  could  do,  and  there  was  not  a  dry  eye  when  he 
died! 

A  day  had  now  effected  a  change  —  a  great  change  —  in  my 
fate.  A  new  court,  a  new  theatre  of  action,  a  new  walk  of 
ambition,  were  suddenly  opened  to  me.  Nothing  could  be 
more  promising  than  my  first  employment;  nothing  could  be 
more  pleasing  than  the  anticipation  of  the  change.  *'  I  must 
force  myself  to  be  agreeable  to-night,"  said  I,  as  I  dressed 
for  the  Regent's  supper.  "  I  must  leave  behind  me  the  re- 
membrance of  a  hon  mot,   or  I  shall  be  forgotten." 

And  I  was  right.  In  that  whirlpool,  the  capital  of  France, 
everything  sinks  but  wit;  that  is  always  on  the  surface;  and 
we  must  cling  to  it  with  a  firm  grasp,  if  we  would  not  go 
down  to  —  "the  deep  oblivion.'' 


CHAPTER  X. 

EOTAL   EXERTIONS    FOK   THE   GOOD    OF   THE   PEOPLE. 

What  a  singular  scene  was  that  private  supper  with  the 
Regent  of  France  and  his  roues!  The  party  consisted  of 
twenty;  nine  gentlemen  of  the  court  besides  myself;  four 
men  of  low  rank  and  character,  but  admirable  buffoons ;  and 
six  ladies,  such  ladies  as  the  Duke  loved  best,  —  witty,  lively, 
sarcastic,  and  good  for  nothing. 

De  Chatran  accosted  me. 

"Je  suis  ravi,  mon  cher  Monsieur  Devereux,"  said  he, 
gravely,  "to  see  you  in  such  excellent  company:  you  must  be 
a  little  surprised  to  find  yourself  here!" 


DEVEREUX.  317 

"  Not  at  all !  every  scene  is  worth  one  visit.  He,  my  good 
Monsieur  Chatran,  who  goes  to  the  House  of  Correction  once 
is  a  philosopher :  he  who  goes  twice  is  a  rogue ! " 

"Thank  you,  Count,  what  am  I  then?  I  have  been  here 
twenty  times." 

"  Why,  I  will  answer  you  with  a  story.  The  soul  of  a  Jes- 
uit one  night,  when  its  body  was  asleep,  wandered  down  to 
the  lower  regions ;  Satan  caught  it,  and  was  about  to  consign 
it  to  some  appropriate  place;  the  soul  tried  hard  to  excuse 
itself:  you  know  what  a  cunning  thing  a  Jesuit's  soul  is! 
'Monsieur  Satan,'  said  the  spirit;  'no  king  should  punish  a 
traveller  as  he  would  a  native.  Upon  my  honour,  I  am 
merely  here  en  voyageur.^  'Go  then,'  said  Satan,  and  the 
soul  flew  back  to  its  body.  But  the  Jesuit  died,  and  came  to 
the  lower  regions  a  second  time.  He  was  brought  before  his 
Satanic  majesty,  and  made  the  same  excuse.  'Xo,  no,'  cried 
Beelzebub;  'once  here  is  to  be  only  le  diahle  voyageur;  twice 
here,  and  you  are  le  diahle  tout  de  hon. '  " 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!"  said  Chatran,  laughing;  "I  then  am  the 
diahle  tout  de  hon !  't  is  well  I  am  no  ivorse ;  for  we  reckon 
the  roues  a  devilish  deal  worse  than  the  very  worst  of  the 
devils, — but  see,  the  Regent  approaches  us." 

And,  leaving  a  very  pretty  and  gay-looking  lady,  the  Re- 
gent sauntered  towards  us.  It  was  in  walking,  by  the  by, 
that  he  lost  all  the  grace  of  his  mien.  I  don't  know,  how- 
ever, that  one  wishes  a  great  man  to  be  graceful,  so  long  as 
he  's  familiar. 

"Aha,  Monsieur  Devereux!"  said  he,  "we  will  give  you 
some  lessons  in  cooking  to-night ;  we  shall  show  you  how  to 
provide  for  yourself  in  that  barbarous  country  which  you  are 
about  to  visit.      Tout  voyageur  doit  tout  savoirf  " 

"A  very  admirable  saying;  which  leads  me  to  understand 
that  Monseigneur  has  been  a  great  traveller,"  said  I. 

"  Ay,  in  all  things  and  all  places;  eh.  Count? "  answered 
the  Regent,  smiling;  "but,"  here  he  lowered  his  voice  a  lit- 
tle, "  I  have  never  yet  learned  how  you  came  so  opportunely 
to  our  assistance  that  night.  Dieu  me  davine  !  but  it  reminds 
me  of  the  old  story  of  the  two  sisters  meeting  at  a  gallant's 


318  DEVEREUX. 

house.  'Oh,  Sister,  how  came  yow  here?'  said  one,  in  vir- 
tuous amazement.  *Ciel/  ma  soeurf'  cries  the  other;  'what 
brought  you ?  '  " ^ 

"Monseigneur  is  pleasant,"  said  I,  laughing;  "but  a  man 
does  now  and  then  (though  I  own  it  is  very  seldom)  do  a  good 
action,  without  having  previously  resolved  to  commit  a  bad 
one! ' 

"I  like  your  parenthesis,"  cried  the  Regent;  "it  reminds 
me  of  my  friend  St.  Simon,  who  thinks  so  ill  of  mankind  that 
I  asked  him  one  day  whether  it  was  possible  for  him  to  de- 
spise anything  more  than  men?  'Yes,'  said  he,  with  a  low 
bow,  'women! ' " 

"His  experience,"  said  I,  glancing  at  the  female  part  of  the 
coterie,  "was,  I  must  own,  likely  to  lead  him  to  that  opinion." 

"None   of  your   sarcasms.    Monsieur,"   cried  the    Regent. 

"'L'amusement  est  un  des  besoins  de  I'homme,'  as  I  hear 
young  Arouet  very  pithily  said  the  other  day;  and  we  owe 
gratitude  to  whomsoever  it  may  be  that  supplies  that  want. 
Now,  you  will  agree  with  me  that  none  supply  it  like  women : 
therefore  we  owe  them  gratitude ;  therefore  we  must  not  hear 
them  abused.     Logically  proved,  I  think!" 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  I,  "it  is  a  pleasure  to  find  they  have  so 
able  an  advocate ;  and  that  your  Highness  can  so  well  apply 
to  yourself  both  the  assertions  in  the  motto  of  the  great  mas- 
ter of  fortification,  Vauban,— 'I  destroy,  but  I  defend.'  " 

"Enough,"  said  the  Duke,  gayly,  "now  to  ow- fortifica- 
tions;''  and  he  moved  away  towards  the  women;  I  followed 
the  royal  example,  and  soon  found  myself  seated  next  to  a 
pretty  and  very  small  woman.  We  entered  into  conversa- 
tion; and,  when  once  begun,  my  fair  companion  took  care 
that  it  should  not  cease,  without  a  miracle.  By  the  goddess 
Facundia,  what  volumes  of  words  issued  from  that  little 
mouth!  and  on  all  subjects  too!  church,  state,  law,  politics, 
play-houses,  lampoons,  lace,  liveries,  kings,  qiieens,  roturiers, 
beggars,  you  would  have  thought,  had  you  heard  her,  so  vast 
was  her  confusion  of  all  things,  that  chaos  had  come  again. 

1  The  reader  will  remember  a  better  version  of  this  anecdote  in  one  of  the 
most  popular  of  the  English  comedies.  —  Ed. 


DEVEREUX.  319 

Our  royal  host  did  not  escape  her.  "  You  never  before  supped 
here  en  faviille,'"  said  she, — "mon  Dieu!  it  will  do  your 
heart  good  to  see  how  much  the  Eegent  will  eat.  He  has 
such  an  appetite;  you  know  he  never  eats  any  dinner,  in 
order  to  eat  the  more  at  supper.  You  see  that  little  dark 
woman  he  is  talking  to?  —  well,  she  is  Madame  de  Parabere: 
he  calls  her  his  little  black  crow ;  was  there  ever  such  a  pet 
name?  Can  you  guess  why  he  likes  her?  Nay,  never  take 
the  trouble  of  thinking:  I  will  tell  you  at  once;  simply  be- 
cause she  eats  and  drinks  so  much.  Parole  iVhonneur,  't  is 
true.  The  Regent  says  he  likes  sympathy  in  all  things !  is  it 
not  droll?  What  a  hideous  old  man  is  that  Noce:  his  face 
looks  as  if  it  had  caught  the  rainbow.  That  impudent  fellow 
Dubois  scolded  him  for  squeezing  so  many  louis  out  of  the 
good  Regent.  The  yellow  creature  attempted  to  deny  the 
fact.  'Nay,'  cried  Dubois,  'you  cannot  contradict  me:  I  see 
their  very  ghosts  in  your  face.'" 

While  my  companion  was  thus  amusing  herself,  Noce,  un- 
conscious of  her  panegyric  on  his  personal  attractions,  joined 
us. 

"Ah!  my  dear  Noce,"  said  the  lady,  most  affectionately, 
"how  well  you  are  looking!     I  am  delighted  to  see  you." 

"I  do  not  doubt  it,"  said  Noce  "for  I  have  to  inform  you 
that  your  petition  is  granted;  your  husband  will  have  the 
place." 

"  Oh,  how  eternally  grateful  I  am  to  you !  "  cried  the  lady, 
in  an  ecstasy;  "my  poor,  dear  husband  will  be  so  rejoiced. 
I  wish  I  had  wings  to  fly  to  him!" 

The  gallant  Noce  uttered  a  compliment ;  I  thought  myself 
de  trap,  and  moved  away.     I  again  encountered  Chatran. 

"I  overheard  your  conversation  with  Madame  la  ^Marquise," 
said  he,  smiling:  "she  has  a  bitter  tongue;  has  she  not?" 

"Very!  how  she  abused  the  poor  rogue  Noc6l " 

"  Yes,  and  yet  he  is  her  lover !  " 

"Her  lover! — you  astonish  me:  why,  she  seemed  almost 
fond  of  her  husband;  the  tears  came  in  her  eyes  when  she 
spoke  of  him.'' 

"  She  is  fond  of  him!  "  said  Chatran,  dryly.    "  She  loves  the 


320  DEVEREUX. 

ground  he  treads  on:  it  is  precisely  for  that  reason  she  fa- 
vours Noce;  she  is  never  happy  but  when  she  is  procuring 
something  pour  son  cher  bon  mari.  She  goes  to  spend  a  week 
at  ^SToce's  country-house,  and  writes  to  her  husband,  with  a 
pen  dipped  in  her  blood,  saying,  'My  heart  is  with  thee!  ' " 

"Certainly,"  said  I,  "France  is  the  land  of  enigmas;  the 
sphynx  must  have  been  a  Parisienne.  And  when  Jupiter 
made  man,  he  made  two  natures  utterly  distinct  from  one 
another.  One  was  Human  nature,  and  the  other  French 
nature  !  " 

At  this  moment  supper  was  announced.  We  all  adjourned 
to  another  apartment,  where  to  my  great  surprise  I  observed 
the  cloth  laid,  the  sideboard  loaded,  the  wines  ready,  but 
nothing  to  eat  on  the  table !  A  Madame  de  Savori,  who  was 
next  me,  noted  my  surprise. 

"What  astonishes  you,  Monsieur?" 

''Nothing,  Madame,"  said  I;  "that  is,  the  absence  of  all 
things." 

"What!  you  expected  to  see  supper?" 

"I  own  my  delusion:  I  did." 

"It  is  not  cooked  yet!  " 

"Oh!  well,  lean  wait!" 

"  And  officiate  too ! "  said  the  lady ;  "  in  a  word,  this  is 
one  of  the  Eegent's  cooking  nights." 

Scarcely  had  I  received  this  explanation,  before  there  was  a 
general  adjournment  to  an  inner  apartment,  where  all  the 
necessary  articles  of  cooking  were  ready  to  our  hand. 

"  The  Regent  led  the  way, 
To  light  us  to  our  prey," 

and,  with  an  irresistible  gravity  and  importance  of  demeanour, 
entered  upon  the  duties  of  chef.  In  a  very  short  time  we 
were  all  engaged.  Nothing  could  exceed  the  zest  with  which 
every  one  seemed  to  enter  into  the  rites  of  the  kitchen.  You 
would  have  imagined  they  had  been  born  scullions,  they 
handled  the  batterie  de  cuisine  so  naturally.  As  for  me,  I 
sought  protection  with  Madame  de  Savori;  and  as,  fortu- 
nately, she  was  very  deeply  skilled  in  the  science,  she  had 


DEVEREUX.  321 

occasion  to  employ  me  in  many  minor  avocations  which  her 
experience  tauglit  her  would  not  be  above  my  comprehension. 

After  we  had  spent  a  certain  time  in  this  dignified  occu- 
pation, we  returned  to  the  salle  a  manger.  The  attendants 
placed  the  dishes  on  the  table,  and  we  all  fell  to.  Whether 
out  of  self-love  to  their  own  performances,  or  complaisance  to 
the  performances  of  others,  I  cannot  exactly  say,  but  certain 
it  is  that  all  the  guests  acquitted  themselves  a  merveille :  you 
would  not  have  imagined  the  Regent  the  only  one  who  had 
gone  without  dinner  to  eat  the  more  at  supper.  Even  that 
devoted  wife  to  her  cher  hon  mart,  who  had  so  severely  dwelt 
upon  the  good  Eegent's  infirmity,  occupied  herself  with  an 
earnestness  that  would  have  seemed  almost  wolf-like  in  a 
famished  grenadier. 

Very  slight  indeed  was  the  conversation  till  the  supper  was 
nearly  over-,  then  the  effects  of  the  wine  became  more  percep- 
tible. The  Regent  was  the  first  person  who  evinced  that  he 
had  eaten  sufficiently  to  be  able  to  talk.  Utterly  dispensing 
with  the  slightest  veil  of  reserve  or  royalty,  he  leaned  over 
the  table,  and  poured  forth  a  whole  tide  of  jests.  The  guests 
then  began  to  think  it  was  indecorous  to  stuff  themselves 
any  more,  and,  as  well  as  they  were  able,  they  followed  their 
host's  example.  But  the  most  amusing  personages  were  the 
buffoons :  they  mimicked  and  joked,  and  lampooned  and  lied, 
as  if  by  inspiration.  As  the  bottle  circulated,  and  talk  grew 
louder,  the  lampooning  and  the  lying  were  not,  however,  con- 
fined to  the  buffoons.  On  the  contrary,  the  best  born  and 
best  bred  people  seemed  to  excel  the  most  in  those  polite  arts. 
Every  person  who  boasted  a  fair  name  or  a  decent  reputation 
at  court  was  seized,  condemned,  and  mangled  in  an  instant. 
And  how  elaborately  the  good  folks  slandered!  It  was  no 
hasty  word  and  flippant  repartee  which  did  the  business  of 
the  absent:  there  was  a  precision,  a  polish,  a  labour  of  mal- 
ice, which  showed  that  each  person  had  brought  so  many 
reputations  already  cut  up.  The  good-natured  convivialists 
differed  from  all  other  backbiters  that  I  have  ever  met,  In 
the  same  manner  as  the  toads  of  Surinam  differ  from  all  other 
toads;    namely,    their    venomous    offspring    were    not    half 

21 


322  DEVEREUX. 

formed,  misshapen  tadpoles  of  slander,  but  sprang  at  once 
into  life, —  well  shaped  and  fully  developed. 

"  Chantons  !  "  cried  the  Eegent,  whose  eyes,  winking  and 
rolling,  gave  token  of  his  approaching  state  which  equals 
the  beggar  to  the  king;  "let  us  have  a  song.  Noce,  lift  up 
thy  voice,  and  let  us  hear  what  the  Tokay  has  put  into  thy 
head!" 

Noce  obeyed,  and  sang  as  men  half  drunk  generally  do  sing. 

"0  CieZ.'"'  whispered  the  malicious  Savori,  "what  a  hid- 
eous screech:  one  would  think  he  had  turned  his  face  into  a 
voice/  " 

'^  Bravissimo  /  "  cried  the  Duke,  when  his  guest  had  ceased, 
—  "  what  happy  people  we  are !  Our  doors  are  locked ;  not  a 
soul  can  disturb  us :  we  have  plenty  of  wine ;  we  are  going  to 
get  drunk;  and  we  have  all  Paris  to  abuse!  what  were  you 
saying  of  Marshal  Villars,   my  little  Parabere?" 

And  pounce  went  the  little  Parabere  upon  the  unfortunate 
marshal.  At  last  slander  had  a  respite :  nonsense  began  its 
reign;  the  full  inspiration  descended  upon  the  orgies;  the 
good  people  lost  the  use  of  their  faculties.  Noise,  clamour, 
uproar,  broken  bottles,  falling  chairs,  and  (I  grieve  to  say) 
their  occupants  falling  too,  —  conclude  the  scene  of  the  royal 
supper.     Let  us  drop  the  curtain. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

AJf   INTERVIEW. 

I  WENT  a  little  out  of  my  way,  on  departing  from  Paris,  to 
visit  Lord  Bolingbroke,  who  at  that  time  was  in  the  country. 
There  are  some  men  whom  one  never  really  sees  in  capitals ; 
one  sees  their  masks,  not  themselves:  Bolingbroke  was  one. 
It  was  in  retirement,  however  brief  it  might  be,  that  his  true 
nature  expanded  itself;  and,  weary  of  being  admired,  he  al- 


DEVEREUX.  323 

lowed  one  to  love,  and,  even  in  tlie  wildest  course  of  his  ear- 
lier excesses,  to  respect  him.  My  visit  was  limited  to  a  few 
hours,  but  it  made  an  indelible  impression  on  me. 

"Once  more,"  I  said,  as  we  walked  to  and  fro  in  the  garden 
of  his  temporary  retreat,  "once  more  you  are  in  your  element; 
minister  and  statesman  of  a  prince,  and  chief  supporter  of 
the  great  plans  which  are  to  restore  him  to  his  throne." 

A  slight  shade  passed  over  Bolingbroke's  fine  brow.  "To 
you,  my  constant  friend,"  said  he,  "to  you, —  who  of  all  my 
friends  alone  remained  true  in  exile,  and  unshaken  by  mis- 
fortune,—  to  you  I  will  confide  a  secret  that  I  would  intrust 
to  no  other.  I  repent  me  already  of  having  espoused  this 
cause.  I  did  so  while  yet  the  disgrace  of  an  unmerited  at- 
tainder tingled  in  my  veins ;  while  I  was  in  the  full  tide  of 
those  violent  and  warm  passions  which  have  so  often  misled 
me.  Myself  attainted;  the  best  beloved  of  my  associates  in 
danger;  my  party  deserted,  and  seemingly  lost  but  for  some 
bold  measure  such  as  then  offered, —  these  were  all  that  I  saw. 
I  listened  eagerly  to  representations  I  now  find  untrue;  and  I 
accepted  that  rank  and  power  from  one  prince  which  were  so 
rudely  and  gallingly  torn  from  me  by  another.  I  perceive 
that  I  have  acted  imprudently ;  bvit  what  is  done,  is  done :  no 
private  scruples,  no  private  interest,  shall  make  me  waver  in 
a  cause  that  I  have  once  pledged  myself  to  serve ;  and  if  I  can 
do  aught  to  make  a  weak  cause  powerful,  and  a  divided  party 
successful,  I  will;  but,  Devereux,  you  are  wrong, — this  is 
not  my  element.  Ever  in  the  paths  of  strife,  I  have  sighed 
for  quiet;  and,  while  most  eager  in  pursuit  of  ambition,  I 
have  languished  the  most  fondly  for  content.  The  littleness 
of  intrigue  disgusts  me,  and  while  the  branches  of  my  power 
soared  the  highest,  and  spread  with  the  most  luxuriance,  it 
galled  me  to  think  of  the  miry  soil  in  which  that  power  was 
condemned  to  strike  the  roofs,^  upon  which  it  stood,  and  by 
which  it  must  be  nourished." 

1  "Occasional  Writer,"  Xo.  1.  The  Editor  has,  throughout  this  work, 
nsnally,  but  not  invariably,  noted  the  passages  in  Bolingbroke's  writings,  in 
which  there  occur  similes,  illustrations,  or  striking  thoughts,  correspondent 
with  those  in  the  text. 


324  DEVEREUX. 

I  answered  Bolingbroke  as  men  are  wont  to  answer 
statesmen  who  complain  of  their  calling, —  half  in  com- 
pliment, half  in  contradiction;  but  he  replied  with  unusual 
seriousness, — 

"  Do  not  think  I  affect  to  speak  thus :  you  know  how  eagerly 
I  snatch  any  respite  from  state,  and  how  unmovedly  I  have 
borne  the  loss  of  prosperity  and  of  power.  You  are  now 
about  to  enter  those  perilous  paths  which  I  have  trod  for 
years.  Your  passions,  like  mine,  are  strong!  Beware,  oh, 
beware,  how  you  indulge  them  without  restraint !  They  are 
the  fires  which  should  warm :  let  them  not  be  the  fires  which 
destroy." 

Bolingbroke  paused  in  evident  and  great  agitation;  he  re- 
sumed: "I  speak  strongly,  for  I  speak  in  bitterness;  I  was 
thrown  early  into  the  world;  my  whole  education  had  been 
framed  to  make  me  ambitious;  it  succeeded  in  its  end.  I 
was  ambitious,  and  of  all  success, —  success  in  pleasure,  suc- 
cess in  fame.  To  wean  me  from  the  former,  my  friends  per- 
suaded me  to  marr}^ ;  they  chose  my  wife  for  her  connections 
and  her  fortune,  and  I  gained  those  advantages  at  the  expense 
of  what  was  better  than  either, — happiness!  You  know  how 
unfortunate  has  been  that  marriage,  and  how  young  I  was 
when  it  was  contracted.  Can  you  wonder  that  it  failed  in 
the  desired  effect?  Everyone  courted  me;  every  temptation 
assailed  me:  pleasure  even  became  more  alluring  abroad, 
when  at  home  I  had  no  longer  the  hope  of  peace ;  the  indul- 
gence of  one  passion  begat  the  indulgence  of  another;  and, 
though  my  better  sense  ^i^omipted  all  my  actions,  it  never  re- 
strained them  to  a  proper  limit.  Thus  the  commencement  of 
my  actions  has  been  generally  prudent,  and  their  continuation 
has  deviated  into  rashness,  or  plunged  into  excess.  Devereux, 
I  have  paid  the  forfeit  of  my  errors  with  a  terrible  interest : 
when  my  motives  have  been  pure,  men  have  seen  a  fault  in 
the  conduct,  and  calumniated  the  motives ;  when  my  conduct 
has  been  blameless,  men  have  remembered  its  former  errors, 
and  asserted  that  its  present  goodness  only  arose  from  some 
sinister  intention:  thus  I  have  been  termed  crafty,  when  I 
was  in  reality  rash,  and  that  was  called  the  inconsistency  of 


DEVEREUX.  326 

interest  which  in  reality  was  the  inconsistency  of  passion.^  I 
have  reason,  therefore,  to  warn  you  how  you  suffer  your  sub- 
jects to  become  your  tyrants;  and  believe  me  no  experience  is 
so  deep  as  that  of  one  who  has  committed  faults,  and  who  has 
discovered  their  causes." 

"Apply,  my  dear  Lord,  that  experience  to  your  future  ca- 
reer. You  remember  what  the  most  sagacious  of  all  pedants," 
even  though  he  was  an  emperor,  has  so  happily  expressed, — 
'Repentance  is  a  goddess,  and  the  preserver  of  those  who  have 
erred.'  " 

"May  I ^nc?  her  so!  "  answered  Bolingbroke ;  "but  as  Mon- 
taigne or  Charron  would  say,  ^  'Every  man  is  at  once  his 
own  sharper  and  his  own  bubble.'  We  make  vast  promises 
to  ourselves;  and  a  passion,  an  example,  sweeps  even  the 
remembrance  of  those  promises  from  our  minds.  One  is  too 
apt  to  believe  men  hypocrites,  if  their  conduct  squares  not 
with  their  sentiments;  hi\t  j^erhajjs  no  vice  is  more  rare,  for 
no  task  is  more  difficult,  than  systematic  hypocrisy ;  and  the 
same  susceptibility  which  exposes  men  to  be  easily  impressed 
by  the  allurements  of  vice  renders  them  at  heart  most  struck 
by  the  loveliness  of  virtue.  Thus,  their  language  and  their 
hearts  worship  the  divinity  of  the  latter,  while  their  conduct 
strays  the  most  erringly  towards  the  false  shrines  over  which 

'  This  I  do  believe  to  be  the  real  (though  perhaps  it  is  a  new)  liglit  in 
which  Lord  Bolingbroke's  life  and  character  are  to  be  viewed.  The  same 
writers  who  tell  ns  of  his  ungovernable  passions,  always  prefix  to  his  name 
the  epithets  "  designing,  cunning,  crafty,"  etc.  Now  I  will  venture  to  tell 
these  historians  that,  if  they  had  studied  human  nature  instead  of  party 
pamphlets,  they  would  have  discovered  that  there  are  certain  incompatible 
qualities  which  can  never  be  united  in  one  character,  —  that  no  man  can  have 
violent  passions  to  which  he  is  in  the  habit  of  i/ielding,  and  be  systematically 
crafty  and  designing.  No  man  can  be  all  heat,  and  at  the  same  time  all  cool- 
ness; but  opposite  causes  not  unoften  produce  like  effects.  Passion  usually 
makes  men  changeable,  so  sometimes  does  craft :  hence  the  mistake  of  the 

uninquiring  or  the  shallow;  and  hence  while writes,  and compiles, 

will  the  characters  of  great  men  be  transmitted  to  posterity  misstated  and 
belied.  —  Ed. 

*  The  Emperor  Julian.  The  original  expression  is  paraphrased  in  the 
text. 

^  "  Spirit  of  Patriotism." 


326  DEVEREUX. 

the  former  presides.  Yes!  I  have  never  been  blind  to  the 
surpassing  excellence  of  Good.  The  still,  sweet  whispers  of 
virtue  have  been  heard,  even  when  the  storm  has  been  loud- 
est, and  the  bark  of  Keason  been  driven  the  most  impetuously 
over  the  waves :  and,  at  this  moment,  I  am  impressed  with  a 
foreboding  that,  sooner  or  later,  the  whispers  will  not  only 
be  heard,  but  their  suggestion  be  obeyed;  and  that,  far  from 
courts  and  intrigue,  from  dissipation  and  ambition,  I  shall 
learn,  in  retirement,  the  true  principles  of  wisdom,  and  the 
real  objects  of  life." 

Thus  did  Bolingbroke  converse,  and  thus  did  I  listen,  till 
it  was  time  to  depart.  I  left  him  impressed  with  a  melan- 
choly that  was  rather  soothing  than  distasteful.  Whatever 
were  the  faults  of  that  most  extraordinary  and  most  dazzling 
genius,  no  one  was  ever  more  candid  ^  in  confessing  his  errors. 
A  systematically  bad  man  either  ridicules  what  is  good  or 
disbelieves  in  its  existence;  but  no  man  can  be  hardened  in 
vice  whose  heart  is  still  sensible  of  the  excellence  and  the 
glory  of  virtue. 

1  It  is  impossible  to  read  the  letter  to  Sir  W.  Windham  without  being  re- 
markably struck  with  the  dignified  and  yet  open  candour  which  it  displays. 
The  same  candour  is  equally  visible  in  whatever  relates  to  himself,  in  all 
Lord  Bolingbroke's  M-ritings  and  correspondence ;  and  yet  candour  is  the 
last  attribute  usually  conceded  to  him.  But  never  was  there  a  writer  whom 
people  have  talked  of  more  and  read  less ,  and  I  do  not  know  a  greater  proof 
of  this  than  the  ever  repeated  assertion  (echoed  from  a  most  incompetent 
authority)  of  the  said  letter  to  Sir  W.  Windham  being  the  finest  of  all  Lord 
Bolingbroke's  writings.  It  is  an  article  of  great  value  to  the  history  of  the 
times ;  but,  as  to  all  the  higher  graces  and  qualities  of  composition,  it  is  one 
of  the  least  striking  (and  on  the  other  hand  it  is  one  of  the  most  verbally 
incorrect)  which  he  has  bequeathed  to  us  (the  posthumous  works  always 
excepted).  I  am  not  sure  whether  the  most  brilliant  passages,  the  most 
noble  illustrations,  the  most  profound  reflections,  and  most  useful  truths,  to 
be  found  in  all  his  writings,  are  not  to  be  gathered  from  the  least  popular  of 
them,  —  such  as  that  volume  entitled  "  Political  Tracts."  —  Ed. 


BOOK    V. 

CHAPTER  I. 

A   PORTRAIT. 

Mysterious  impulse  at  the  heart,  which  never  suffers  us  to 
be  at  rest,  which  urges  us  onward  as  by  an  unseen  yet  irresis- 
tible law  —  human  planets  in  a  petty  orbit,  hurried  forever 
and  forever,  till  our  course  is  run  and  our  light  is  quenched 
—  through  the  circle  of  a  dark  and  impenetrable  destiny !  art 
thou  not  some  faint  forecast  and  type  of  our  wanderings  here- 
after; of  the  unslumbering  nature  of  the  soul;  of  the  ever- 
lasting progress  which  we  are  predoomed  to  make  through  the 
countless  steps  and  realms  and  harmonies  in  the  infinite  cre- 
ation? Oh,  often  in  my  rovings  have  I  dared  to  dream  so, — 
often  have  I  soared  on  the  wild  wings  of  thought  above  the 
"smoke  and  stir"  of  this  dim  earth,  and  wroiight,  from 
the  restless  visions  of  my  mind,  a  chart  of  the  glories  and  the 
wonders  which  the  released  spirit  may  hereafter  visit  and 
behold! 

What  a  glad  awakening  from  self,  —  what  a  si:)arkling  and 
fresh  draught  from  a  new  source  of  being, — what  a  wheel 
within  wheel,  animating,  impelling,  arousing  all  the  rest 
of  tliis  animal  machine,  is  the  first  excitement  of  Travel! 
the  first  free  escape  from  the  bonds  of  the  linked  and  tame 
life  of  cities  and  social  vices, — the  jaded  pleasure  and  the 
hollow  love,  the  monotonous  round  of  sordid  objects  and  dull 
desires, — the  eternal  chain  that  binds  us  to  things  and  be- 
ings, mockeries  of  ourselves, — alike,  but  oh,  how  different! 
the  shock  that  brings  us  nearer  to  men  only  to  make  us  strive 


328  DEVEREUX. 

against  them,  and  learn,  from  the  harsh  contest  of  veiled  de- 
ceit and  open  force,  that  the  more  we  share  the  aims  of  others, 
the  more  deeply  and  basely  rooted  we  grow  to  the  littleness 
of  self! 

I  passed  more  lingeringly  through  France  than  I  did  through 
the  other  portions  of  my  route.  I  had  dwelt  long  enough  in 
the  capital  to  be  anxious  to  survey  the  country.  It  was  then 
that  the  last  scale  which  the  magic  of  Louis  Quatorze  and  the 
memory  of  his  gorgeous  court  had  left  upon  the  mortal  eye 
fell  off,  and  I  saw  the  real  essence  of  that  monarch's  greatness 
and  the  true  relics  of  his  reign.  I  saw  the  poor,  and  the 
degraded,  and  the  racked,  and  the  priest-ridden,  tillers  and 
peoplers  of  the  soil,  which  made  the  substance  beneath  the 
glittering  and  false  surface, — the  body  of  that  vast  empire,  of 
which  I  had  hitherto  beheld  only  the  face,  and  that  darkly, 
and  for  the  most  part  covered  by  a  mask ! 

No  man  can  look  upon  France,  beautiful  France,  —  her  rich 
soil,  her  temperate  yet  maturing  clime,  the  gallant  and  bold 
spirits  which  she  produces,  her  boundaries  so  indicated  and 
protected  by  Nature  itself,  her  advantages  of  ocean  and  land, 
of  commerce  and  agriculture, —  and  not  wonder  that  her  pros- 
perity should  be  so  bloated,  and  her  real  state  so  wretched 
and  diseased. 

Let  England  draw  the  moral,  and  beware  not  only  of  wars 
which  exhaust,  but  of  governments  which  impoverish.  A 
waste  of  the  public  wealth  is  the  most  lasting  of  public  afflic- 
tions; and  "the  treasury  which  is  drained  by  extravagance 
must  be  refilled  by  crime."  ^ 

I  remember  one  beautiful  evening  an  accident  to  my  car- 
riage occasioned  my  sojourn  for  a  whole  afternoon  in  a  small 
village.  The  Cure  honoured  me  with  a  visit;  and  we  strolled, 
after  a  slight  repast,  into  the  hamlet.  The  priest  was  com- 
plaisant, quiet  in  manner,  and  not  ill  informed  for  his  ob- 
scure station  and  scanty  opportunities  of  knowledge;  he  did 
not  seem,  however,  to  possess  the  vivacity  of  his  countrymen, 
but  was  rather  melancholy  and  pensive,  not  only  in  his  ex- 
pression of  countenance,   but  his  cast  of  thought. 

^  Tacitus. 


DEVEREUX.  329 

"You  have  a  charming  scene  here:  I  almost  feel  as  if  it 
were  a  sin  to  leave  it  so  soon." 

We  were,  indeed,  in  a  pleasant  and  alluring  spot  at  the 
time  I  addressed  this  observation  to  the  good  Cure.  A  little 
rivulet  emerged  from  the  copse  to  the  left,  and  ran  sparkling 
and  dimpling  beneath  our  feet,  to  deck  with  a  more  living 
verdure  the  village  green,  which  it  intersected  with  a  wind- 
ing nor  unmelodious  stream.  We  had  paused,  and  I  was 
leaning  against  an  old  and  solitary  chestnut-tree,  which  com- 
manded the  whole  scene.  The  village  was  a  little  in  the  rear, 
and  the  smoke  from  its  few  chimneys  rose  slowly  to  the  si- 
lent and  deep  skies,  not  wholly  unlike  the  human  wishes, 
Avhich,  though  they  spring  from  the  grossness  and  the  fumes 
of  earth,  purify  themselves  as  they  ascend  to  heaven.  And 
from  the  village  (when  other  sounds,  which  I  shall  note  pres- 
ently, were  for  an  instant  still)  came  the  whoop  of  children, 
mellowed  by  distance  into  a  confused  yet  thrilling  sound, 
which  fell  upon  the  heart  like  the  voice  of  our  gone  childhood 
itself.  Before,  in  the  far  expanse,  stretched  a  chain  of  hills 
on  which  the  autumn  sun  sank  slowly,  pouring  its  yellow 
beams  over  groups  of  peasantry,  which,  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  rivulet  and  at  some  interval  from  us,  were  scattered, 
partly  over  the  green,  and  partly  gathered  beneath  the  shade 
of  a  little  grove.  The  former  were  of  the  young,  and  those 
to  whom  youth's  sports  are  dear,  and  were  dancing  to  the 
merry  music,  which  (ever  and  anon  blended  with  the  laugh 
and  the  tone  of  a  louder  jest)  floated  joyously  on  our  ears. 
The  fathers  and  matrons  of  the  hamlet  were  inhaling  a  more 
quiet  joy  beneath  the  trees,  and  I  involuntarily  gave  a  ten- 
derer interest  to  their  converse  by  supposing  them  to  sanction 
to  each  other  the  rustic  loves  which  they  might  survey  among 
their  children. 

"Will  not  Monsieur  draw  nearer  to  the  dancers?"  said  the 
Cure ;  "  there  is  a  plank  thrown  over  the  rivulet  a  little  lower 
down." 

"  No ! "  said  I,  "  perhaps  they  are  seen  to  better  advantage 
where  we  are:  what  mirth  will  bear  too  close  an  inspection? " 

"True,  Sir,"  remarked  the  priest,  and  he  sighed. 


330  DEVEREUX. 

"Yet,"  I  resumed  musingly,  and  I  spoke  ratlier  to  myself 
than  to  my  companion,  "yet,  how  happy  do  they  seem!  what 
a  revival  of  our  Arcadian  dreams  are  the  flute  and  the  dance, 
the  glossy  trees  all  glowing  in  the  autumn  sunset,  the  green 
sod,  and  the  murmuring  rill,  and  the  buoyant  laugh,  start- 
ling the  satyr  in  his  leafy  haunts ;  and  the  rural  loves  which 
will  grow  sweeter  still  when  the  sun  has  set,  and  the  twilight 
has  made  the  sigh  more  tender  and  the  blush  of  a  mellower 
hue!  Ah,  why  is  it  only  the  revival  of  a  dream?  why  must 
it  be  only  an  interval  of  labour  and  woe,  the  brief  saturnalia 
of  slaves,  the  green  resting-spot  in  a  dreary  and  long  road  of 
travail  and  toil?" 

"You  are  the  first  stranger  I  have  met,"  said  the  Cur^,  "who 
seems  to  pierce  beneath  the  thin  veil  of  our  Gallic  gayety; 
the  first  to  whom  the  scene  we  now  survey  is  fraught  with 
other  feelings  than  a  belief  in  the  happiness  of  our  peasantry 
and  an  envy  at  its  imagined  exuberance.  But  as  it  is  not  the 
happiest  individuals,  so  I  fear  it  is  not  the  happiest  nations, 
that  are  the  gayest," 

I  looked  at  the  Cure  with  some  surprise.  "Your  remark  is 
deeper  than  the  ordinary  wisdom  of  your  tribe,  my  Father," 
said  I. 

"I  have  travelled  over  three  parts  of  the  globe,"  answered 
the  Cure:  "I  was  not  always  intended  for  what  I  am;"  and 
the  priest's  mild  eyes  flashed  with  a  sudden  light  that  as  sud- 
denly died  away.  "Yes,  I  have  travelled  over  the  greater 
part  of  the  known  world,"  he  repeated,  in  a  more  quiet  tone; 
"  and  I  have  noted  that  where  a  man  has  many  comforts  to 
guard,  and  many  rights  to  defend,  he  necessarily  shares  the 
thought  and  the  seriousness  of  those  who  feel  the  value  of  a 
treasure  which  they  possess,  and  whose  most  earnest  medita- 
tions are  intent  upon  providing  against  its  loss.  I  have 
noted,  too,  that  the  joy  produced  by  a  momentary  suspense  of 
labour  is  naturally  great  in  proportion  to  the  toil;  hence  it  is 
that  no  European  mirth  is  so  wild  as  that  of  the  Indian  slave, 
when  a  brief  holiday  releases  him  from  his  task.  Alas!  that 
very  mirth  is  the  strongest  evidence  of  the  weight  of  the  pre- 
vious chains ;  even  as,  in  ourselves,  we  find  the  happiest  mo- 


DEVEREUX.  331 

ment  we  enjoy  is  that  immediately  succeeding  the  cessation 
of  deep  sorrow  to  the  mind  or  violent  torture  to  the  body. "  ^ 

I  was  struck  by  this  observation  of  the  priest. 

"I  see  now/'  said  I,  "that  as  an  Englishman  I  have  no  rea- 
son to  repine  at  the  proverbial  gravity  of  my  countrymen,  or 
to  envy  the  lighter  spirit  of  the  sons  of  Italy  and  France." 

"No,"  said  the  Cure;  "the  happiest  nations  are  those  in 
whose  people  you  Avitness  the  least  sensible  reverses  from 
gayety  to  dejection;  and  that  thought,  which  is  the  noblest 
characteristic  of  the  isolated  man,  is  also  that  of  a  people. 
Freemen  are  serious ;  they  have  objects  at  their  heart  worthy 
to  engross  attention.  It  is  reserved  for  slaves  to  indulge  in 
groans  at  one  moment  and  laughter  at  another." 

"At  that  rate,"  said  I,  "the  best  sign  for  France  will  be 
when  the  gayety  of  her  sons  is  no  longer  a  just  proverb,  and 
the  laughing  lip  is  succeeded  by  the  thoughtful  brow." 

We  remained  silent  for  several  minutes;  our  conversation 
had  shed  a  gloom  over  the  light  scene  before  us,  and  the  voice 
of  the  flute  no  longer  sounded  musically  on  my  ear.  I  pro- 
posed to  the  Cure  to  return  to  my  inn.  As  we  walked  slowly 
in  that  direction,  I  surveyed  my  companion  more  attentively 
than  I  had  hitherto  done.  He  was  a  model  of  masculine  vig- 
our and  grace  of  form;  and,  had  I  not  looked  earnestly  upon 
his  cheek,  I  should  have  thought  him  likely  to  outlive  the 
very  oaks  around  the  hamlet  church  where  he  presided.  But 
the  cheek  was  worn  and  hectic,  and  seemed  to  indicate  that 
the  keen  fire  which  burns  at  the  deep  heart,  unseen,  but  un- 
slaking,  would  consume  the  mortal  fuel,  long  before  Time 
should  even  have  commenced  his  gradual  decay. 

"You  have  travelled,  then,  much.  Sir?"  said  I,  and  the 
tone  of  my  voice  Avas  that  of  curiosity. 

The  good  Cure  penetrated  into  my  desire  to  hear  something 

1  This  reflection,  if  true,  may  console  us  for  the  loss  of  those  viUage  dances 
and  pleasant  holidays  for  which  "  merry  England  "  was  once  celebrated.  The 
loss  of  them  has  been  ascribed  to  the  gloomy  influence  of  the  Puritans ;  but 
it  has  never  occurred  to  the  good  poets,  who  have  so  mourned  over  that  loss, 
that  it  is  also  to  be  ascribed  to  the  liberty  which  those  Puritans  generalized, 
if  they  did  not  introduce.  — Ed. 


332  DEVEREUX. 

of  his  adventures ;  and  few  are  the  recluses  who  are  not  grati- 
fied by  the  interest  of  others,  or  who  are  unwilling  to  reward 
it  by  recalling  those  portions  of  life  most  cherished  by  them- 
selves. Before  we  parted  that  night,  he  told  me  his  little 
history.  He  had  been  educated  for  the  army ;  before  he  en- 
tered the  profession  he  had  seen  the  daughter  of  a  neighbour, 
loved  her,  and  the  old  story, —  she  loved  him  again,  and  died 
before  the  love  passed  the  ordeal  of  marriage.  He  had  no 
longer  a  desire  for  glory,  but  he  had  for  excitement.  He 
sold  his  little  property  and  travelled,  as  he  had  said,  for 
nearly  fourteen  years,  equally  over  the  polished  lands  of  Eu- 
rope and  the  far  climates  where  Truth  seems  fable  and  Fiction 
finds  her  own  legends  realized  or  excelled. 

He  returned  home  poor  in  pocket  and  wearied  in  spirit. 
He  became  what  I  beheld  him.  "My  lot  is  fixed  now,"  said 
he,  in  conclusion;  "but  I  find  there  is  all  the  difference  be- 
tween quiet  and  content :  my  heart  eats  itself  away  here ;  it 
is  the  moth  fretting  the  garment  laid  by,  more  than  the  storm 
or  the  fray  would  have  worn  it." 

I  said  something,  commonplace  enough,  about  solitude,  and 
the  blessings  of  competence,  and  the  country.  The  Cure  shook 
his  head  gently,  but  made  no  answer;  perhaps  he  did  wisely 
in  thinking  the  feelings  are  ever  beyond  the  reach  of  a  stran- 
ger's reasoning.  We  parted  more  affectionately  than  acquaint- 
ances of  so  short  a  date  usually  do ;  and  when  I  returned  from 
Russia,  I  stopped  at  the  village  on  purpose  to  inquire  after 
him.  A  few  months  had  done  the  work:  the  moth  had  al- 
ready fretted  away  the  human  garment;  and  I  walked  to  his 
lowly  and  nameless  grave,  and  felt  that  it  contained  the  only 
quiet  in  which  monotony  is  not  blended  with  regret ! 


DEVEREUX.  333 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE   ENTRANCE    INTO    PETERSBURG.  —  A   RENCONTRE   WITH     AX 

INQUISITIVE    AND    MYSTERIOUS    STRANGER. NOTHING    LIKE 

TRAVEL. 

It  was  certainly  like  entering  a  new  world  when  I  had  the 
frigid  felicity  of  entering  Russia.  I  expected  to  have  found 
Petersburg  a  wonderful  city,  and  I  was  disappointed ;  it  was 
a  wonderful  beginning  of  a  city,  and  that  was  all  I  ought  to 
have  expected.  But  never,  I  believe,  was  there  a  place  which 
there  was  so  much  difficulty  in  arriving  at:  such  winds,  such 
climate,  such  police  arrangements,  —  arranged,  too,  by  such 
fellows !  six  feet  high,  with  nothing  human  about  them  but 
their  uncleanness  and  ferocity!  Such  vexatious  delays,  diffi- 
culties, ordeals,  through  Avhich  it  was  necessary  to  pass,  and 
to  pass,  too,  with  an  air  of  the  most  perfect  satisfaction  and 
content.  By  the  Lord!  one  would  have  imagined,  at  all 
events,  it  must  be  an  earthly  paradise,  to  be  so  arduous  of  ac- 
cess, instead  of  a  Dutch-looking  town,  with  comfortless  ca- 
nals, and  the  most  terrible  climate  in  w^hich  a  civilized 
creature  was  ever  frozen  to  death.  "It  is  just  the  city  a 
nation  of  bears  would  build,  if  bears  ever  became  archi- 
tects," said  I  to  myself,  as  I  entered  the  northern  capital, 
with  my  teeth  chattering  and  my  limbs  in  a  state  of  perfect 
insensibility. 

My  vehicle  stopped,  at  last,  at  an  hotel  to  which  I  had  been 
directed.  It  was  a  circumstance,  I  believe,  peculiar  to  Pe- 
tersburg, that,  at  the  time  I  speak  of,  none  of  its  streets  had 
a  name ;  and  if  one  wanted  to  find  out  a  house,  one  was  forced 
to  do  so  by  oral  description.  A  pleasant  thing  it  was,  too,  to 
stop  in  the  middle  of  a  street,  to  listen  to  such  description  at 
full  length,  and  find  one's  self  rapidly  becoming  ice  as  the 
detail  progressed.     After  I  was  lodged,  thawed,  and  fed,  I 


334  DEVEREUX. 

fell  fast  asleep,  and  slej)!  for  eighteen  hours,  without  waking 
once ;  to  my  mind,  it  was  a  miracle  that  I  ever  woke  again. 

I  then  dressed  myself,  and  taking  my  interpreter,  —  who 
was  a  Livonian,  a  great  rascal,  but  clever,  who  washed  twice 
a  week,  and  did  not  wear  a  beard  above  eight  inches  long, —  I 
put  myself  into  my  carriage,  and  went  to  deliver  my  letters 
of  introduction,  I  had  one  in  particular  to  the  Admiral 
Apraxin;  and  it  was  with  him  that  I  was  directed  to  confer, 
previous  to  seeking  an  interview  with  the  Emperor.  Accord- 
ingly I  repaired  to  his  hotel,  which  was  situated  on  a  sort  of 
quay,  and  was  really,  for  Petersburg,  very  magnificent.  In 
this  quarter,  then  or  a  little  later,  lived  about  thirty  other 
officers  of  the  court.  General  Jagoyinsky,  General  Cyernichoff, 
etc. ;  and,  appropriately  enough,  the  most  remarkable  public 
building  in  the  vicinity  is  the  great  slaughter-house, —  a  fine 
specimen  that  of  practical  satire! 

On  endeavouring  to  pass  through  the  Admiral's  hall  I  had 
the  mortification  of  finding  myself  rejected  by  his  domestics. 
As  two  men  in  military  attire  were  instantly  admitted,  I 
thought  this  a  little  hard  upon  a  man  who  had  travelled  so 
far  to  see  his  admiralship,  and,  accordingly,  hinted  my  in- 
dignation to  Mr.  Muscotofsky,  my  interpreter. 

"You  are  not  so  richly  dressed  as  those  gentlemen,"  said 
he. 

"That  is  the  reason,  is  it?" 

"If  it  so  please  Saint  Nicholas,  it  is;  and,  besides,  those 
gentlemen  have  two  men  running  before  them  to  cry,  'Clear 
the  way!'" 

"I  had  better,  then,  dress  myself  better,  and  take  two 
avant  couriers.^'' 

"If  it  so  please  Saint  Nicholas."  Upon  this  I  returned, 
robed  myself  in  scarlet  and  gold,  took  a  couple  of  lacqueys,  re- 
turned to  Admiral  Apraxin's,  and  was  admitted  in  an  instant. 
AVho  would  have  thought  these  savages  so  like  us?  Appear- 
ances, you  see,  produce  realities  all  over  the  world ! 

The  Admiral,  who  was  a  very  great  man  at  court  —  though 
he  narrowly  escaped  Siberia,  or  the  knout,  some  time  after  — 
was  civil  enough  to  me :  but  I  soon  saw  that,  favourite  as  he 


DEVEREUX.  335 

was  witli  the  Czar,  that  great  man  left  but  petty  moves  in  the 
grand  chessboard  of  politics  to  be  played  by  any  but  himself; 
and  my  proper  plan  in  this  court  appeared  evidently  to  be 
unlike  that  pursued  in  most  others,  where  it  is  better  to  win 
the  favourite  than  the  prince.  Accordingly,  I  lost  no  time  in 
seeking  an  interview  with  the  Czar  himself,  and  readily  ob- 
tained an  appointment  to  that  effect. 

On  the  day  before  the  interview  took  place,  I  amused  my- 
self with  walking  over  the  city,  gazing  upon  its  growing 
grandeur,  and  casting,  in  especial,  a  wistful  eye  upon  the 
fortress  or  citadel,  which  is  situated  in  an  island,  surrounded 
by  the  city,  and  upon  the  building  of  which  more  than  one 
hundred  thousand  men  are  supposed  to  have  perished.  So 
great  a  sacrifice  does  it  require  to  conquer  Nature ! 

While  I  was  thus  amusing  myself,  I  observed  a  man  in  a 
small  chaise  with  one  horse  pass  me  twice,  and  look  at  me 
very  earnestly.  Like  most  of  my  countrymen,  I  do  not  love 
to  be  stared  at;  however,  I  thought  it  better  in  that  unknown 
country  to  change  my  intended  frown  for  a  good-natured  ex- 
pression of  countenance,  and  turned  away.  A  singular  sight 
now  struck  my  attention:  a  couple  of  men  with  beards  that 
would  have  hidden  a  cassowary,  were  walking  slowly  along 
in  their  curious  long  garments,  and  certainly  (I  say  it  rever- 
ently) disgracing  the  semblance  of  humanity,  when,  just  as 
they  came  by  a  gate,  two  other  men  of  astonishing  height 
started  forth,  each  armed  with  a  pair  of  shears.  Before  a 
second  was  over,  off  went  the  beards  of  the  first  two  passen- 
gers ;  and  before  another  second  expired,  off  went  the  skirts 
of  their  garments  too:  I  never  saw  excrescences  so  expedi- 
tiously lopped.  The  two  operators,  who  preserved  a  pro- 
found silence  during  this  brief  affair,  then  retired  a  little, 
and  the  mutilated  wanderers  pursued  their  way  with  an  air 
of  extreme  discomfiture. 

"Nothing  like  travel,  certainly!"  said  I,  unconsciously 
aloud. 

"True!  "  said  a  voice  in  English  behind  me.  I  turned,  and 
saw  the  man  who  had  noticed  me  so  earnestly  in  the  one- 
horse  chaise.    He  was  a  tall,  robust  man,  dressed  very  plainly, 


336  DEVEREUX. 

and  even  shabbily,  in  a  green  uniform,  with  a  narrow  tar- 
nished gold  lace;  and  I  judged  him  to  be  a  foreigner,  like 
myself,  though  his  accent  and  pronunciation  evidently  showed 
that  he  was  not  a  native  of  the  country  in  the  language  of 
which  he  accosted  me. 

"It  is  very  true,"  said  he  again;  "there  is  nothing  like 
travel ! " 

"And  travel,"  I  rejoined  courteously,  "in  those  places 
where  travel  seldom  extends.  I  have  only  been  six  days  at 
Petersburg,  and  till  I  came  hither,  I  knew  nothing  of  the 
variety  of  human  nature  or  the  power  of  human  genius.  But 
will  you  allow  me  to  ask  the  meaning  of  the  very  singular 
occurrence  we  have  just  witnessed?" 

"Oh,  nothing,"  rejoined  the  man,  with  a  broad  strong 
smile,  "nothing  but  an  attempt  to  make  men  out  of  brutes. 
This  custom  of  shaving  is  not,  thank  Heaven,  much  wanted 
now :  some  years  ago  it  was  requisite  to  have  several  stations 
for  barbers  and  tailors  to  perform  their  duties  in.  Now  this 
is  very  seldom  necessary;   those  gentlemen  were   especially 

marked  out  for  the  operation.     By "  (and  here  the  man 

swore  a  hearty  English  and  somewhat  seafaring  oath,  which 
a  little  astonished  me  in  the  streets  of  Petersburg),  "  I  wish 
it  were  as  easy  to  lop  off  all  old  customs !  that  it  were  as  easy 
to  clip  the  heard  of  the  mind,  Sir!     Ha!  ha!  " 

"But  the  Czar  must  have  found  a  little  difficulty  in  effect- 
ing even  this  outward  amendment;  and  to  say  truth,  I  see  so 
many  beards  about  still  that  I  think  the  reform  has  been  more 
partial  than  universal." 

"  Ah,  those  are  the  beards  of  the  common  people :  the  Czar 
leaves  those  for  the  present.     Have  you  seen  the  docks  yet?" 

"  No,  I  am  not  sufficiently  a  sailor  to  take  much  interest  in 
them." 

"Humph!  humph!  you  are  a  soldier,  perhaps?" 

"  I  hope  to  be  so  one  day  or  other :  I  am  not  yet ! " 

"Not  yet!  humph!  there  are  opportunities  in  plenty  for 
those  who  wish  it;  what  is  your  profession,  then,  and  what 
do  you  know  best?" 

I  was  certainly  not  charmed  with  the  honest  inquisitiveness 


DEVEREUX.  337 

of  the  stranger.  "Sir,"  said  I,  "Sir,  my  profession  is  to  an- 
swer no  questions;  and  what  I  know  best  is  —  to  hold  my 
tongue ! " 

The  stranger  laughed  out.  "Well,  well,  that  is  what  all 
Englishmen  know  best !  "  said  he;  "but  don't  be  offended:  if 
you  will  come  home  with  me  I  will  give  you  a  glass  of 
brandy ! " 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  for  the  offer,  but  business  obliges 
me  to  decline  it;  good  morning.  Sir." 

"Good  morning!"  answered  the  man,  slightly  moving  his 
hat,   in  answer  to  my  salutation. 

We  separated,  as  I  thought;  but  I  was  mistaken.  As  ill- 
luck  would  have  it,  I  lost  my  way  in  endeavouring  to  return 
home.  While  I  was  interrogating  a  French  artisan,  who 
seemed  in  a  prodigious  hurry,  up  comes  my  inquisitive  friend 
in  green  again.  "Ha!  you  have  lost  your  way:  I  can  put 
you  into  it  better  than  any  man  in  Petersburg ! " 

I  thought  it  right  to  accept  the  offer;  and  we  moved  on 
side  by  side.  I  now  looked  pretty  attentively  at  my  gentle- 
man. I  have  said  that  he  was  tall  and  stout;  he  was  also  re- 
markably Avell-built,  and  had  a  kind  of  seaman's  ease  and 
freedom  of  gait  and  manner.  His  countenance  was  very 
peculiar;  short,  firm,  and  strongly  marked;  a  small,  but 
thick  mustachio  covered  his  upper  lip;  the  rest  of  his  face 
was  shaved.  His  mouth  was  wide,  but  closed,  when  silent, 
with  that  expression  of  iron  resolution  which  no  feature  but 
the  mouth  can  convey.  His  eyes  were  large,  well-opened, 
and  rather  stern ;  and  when,  which  was  often  in  the  course  of 
conversation,  he  pushed  back  his  hat  from  his  forehead,  the 
motion  developed  two  strong  deep  wrinkles  between  the  eye- 
brows, which  might  be  indicative  either  of  thought  or  of  iras- 
cibility,—  perhaps  of  both.  He  spoke  quickly,  and  with  a 
little  occasional  embarrassment  of  voice,  which,  however, 
never  communicated  itself  to  his  manner.  He  seemed,  in- 
deed, to  have  a  perfect  acquaintance  with  the  mazes  of  the 
growing  city;  and,  every  now  and  then,  stopped  to  say  when 
such  a  house  was  built,  whither  such  a  street  was  to  lead,  etc. 
As  each  of  these  details  betrayed  some  great  triumph  over 

22 


338  DEVEREUX. 

natural  obstacles  and  sometimes  over  national  prejudice,  I 
could  not  help  dropping  a  few  enthusiastic  expressions  in 
praise  of  the  genius  of  the  Czar.  The  man's  eyes  sparkled  as 
he  heard  them. 

"  It  is  easy  to  see, "  said  I,  "  that  you  sympathize  with  me, 
and  that  the  admiration  of  this  great  man  is  not  confined  to 
Englishmen.  How  little  in  comparison  seem  all  other  mon- 
archs !  —  they  ruin  kingdoms ;  the  Czar  creates  one.  The 
whole  history  of  the  world  does  not  afford  an  instance  of  tri- 
umphs so  vast,  so  important,  so  glorious  as  his  have  been. 
How  his  subjects  should  adore  him!" 

"No,"  said  the  stranger,  with  an  altered  and  thoughtful 
manner,  "  it  is  not  his  subjects,  but  their  posterity,  that  will 
appreciate  his  motives,  and  forgive  him  for  wishing  Russia  to 
be  an  empire  of  men.  The  present  generation  may  sometimes 
be  laughed,  sometimes  forced,  out  of  their  more  barbarous 
habits  and  brute-like  customs,  but  they  cannot  be  reasoned 
out  of  them ;  and  they  don't  love  the  man  who  attempts  to  do 
it.  Why,  Sir,  I  question  whether  Ivan  IV.,  who  used  to 
butcher  the  dogs  between  prayers  for  an  occupation,  and  be- 
tween meals  for  an  appetite,  I  question  whether  his  memory 
is  not  to  the  full  as  much  loved  as  the  living  Czar.  I  know, 
at  least,  that  whenever  the  latter  attempts  a  reform,  the  good 
Muscovites  shrug  up  their  shoulders,  and  mutter,  'We  did 
not  do  these  things  in  the  good  old  days  of  Ivan  IV. '  " 

"  Ah !  the  people  of  all  nations  are  wonderfully  attached  to 
their  ancient  customs;  and  it  is  not  unfrequently  that  the 
most  stubborn  enemies  to  living  men  are  their  own  ancestors." 

"  Ha !  ha !  —  true  —  good !  "  cried  the  stranger ;  and  then, 
after  a  short  pause,  he  said  in  a  tone  of  deep  feeling  which 
had  not  hitherto  seemed  at  all  a  part  of  his  character,  "  We 
should  do  that  which  is  good  to  the  human  race,  from  some 
principle  within,  and  should  not  therefore  abate  our  efforts 
for  the  opposition,  the  rancour,  or  the  ingratitude  that  we  ex- 
perience without.  It  will  be  enough  reward  for  Peter  I.,  if 
hereafter,  when  (in  that  circulation  of  knowledge  throughout 
the  world  which  I  can  compare  to  nothing  better  than  the 
circulation  of  the  blood  in  the  human  body)  the   glory  of 


DEVEREUX.  389 

Russia  shall  rest,  not  upon  the  extent  of  her  dominions,  but 
that  of  her  civilization,  —  not  upon  the  number  of  inhabitants, 
embruted  and  besotted,  but  the  number  of  enlightened,  pros- 
perous, and  free  men;  it  will  be  enough  for  him,  if  he  be 
considered  to  have  laid  the  first  stone  of  that  great  change, — 
if  his  labours  be  fairly  weighed  against  the  obstacles  which 
opposed  them, —  if,  for  his  honest  and  unceasing  endeavour 
to  improve  millions,  he  be  not  too  severely  judged  for  offences 
in  a  more  limited  circle, —  and  if,  in  consideration  of  having 
fought  the  great  battle  against  custom,  circumstances,  and 
opposing  nature,  he  be  sometimes  forgiven  for  not  having  in- 
variably conquered  himself." 

As  the  stranger  broke  off  abruptly,  I  could  not  but  feel  a 
little  impressed  by  his  words  and  the  energy  with  which  they 
were  spoken.  "We  were  now  in  sight  of  my  lodging.  I  asked 
my  guide  to  enter  it;  but  the  change  in  our  conversation 
seemed  to  have  unfitted  him  a  little  for  my  companionship. 

"No,"  said  he,  "I  have  business  now;  we  shall  meet  again; 
what 's  your  name?  " 

"Certainly,"  thought  I,  "no  man  ever  scrupled  so  little  to 
ask  plain  questions : "  however,  I  answered  him  truly  and 
freely. 

"Devereux!"  said  he,  as  if  surprised.  "Ha!  —  well  —  we 
shall  meet  again.     Good  day." 


CHAPTER    III. 

the  czar.  —  the  czarixa.  —  a  feast  at  a  russian  noble" 

man's. 

The  next  day  I  dressed  myself  in  my  richest  attire ;  and, 
according  to  my  appointment,  went  with  as  much  state  as  I 
could  command  to  the  Czar's  palace  (if  an  exceedingly  hum- 
ble abode  can  deserve  so  proud  an  appellation).  Although 
my  mission  was  private,  I  was  a  little  surprised  by  the  ex- 


340  DEVEREUX. 

treme  simplicity  and  absence  from  pomp  which  the  royal  resi- 
dence presented.  I  was  ushered  for  a  few  moments  into  a 
paltry  ante-chamber,  in  which  were  several  models  of  ships, 
cannon,  and  houses;  two  or  three  indilferent  portraits,  —  one 
of  King  William  III.,  another  of  Lord  Caermarthen.  I  was 
then  at  once  admitted  into  the  royal  presence. 

There  were  only  two  persons  in  the  room, —  one  a  female, 
the  other  a  man ;  no  officers,  no  courtiers,  no  attendants,  none 
of  the  insignia  nor  the  witnesses  of  majesty.  The  female  was 
Catherine,  the  Czarina;  the  man  was  the  stranger  I  had  met 
the  day  before  —  and  Peter  the  Great.  I  was  a  little  startled 
at  the  identity  of  the  Czar  with  my  inquisitive  acquaintance. 
However,  I  put  on  as  assured  a  countenance  as  I  could.  In- 
deed, I  had  spoken  sufficiently  well  of  the  royal  person  to 
feel  very  little  apprehension  at  having  unconsciously  paid  so 
slight  a  respect  to  the  royal  dignity. 

"Ho!  ho!"  cried  the  Czar,  as  I  reverently  approached 
him;  "I  told  you  we  should  meet  soon!  "  and  turning  round, 
he  presented  me  to  her  Majesty.  That  extraordinary  woman 
received  me  very  graciously:  and,  though  I  had  been  a  spec- 
tator of  the  most  artificial  and  magnificent  court  in  Europe,  I 
must  confess  that  I  could  detect  nothing  in  the  Czarina's  air 
calculated  to  betray  her  having  been  the  servant  of  a  Lu- 
theran minister  and  the  wife  of  a  Swedish  dragoon ;  whether 
it  was  that  greatness  was  natural  to  her,  or  whether  (which 
was  more  probable)  she  was  an  instance  of  the  truth  of  Suck- 
ling's hackneyed  thought,  in  "Brennoralt,"  —  "Success  is  a 
rare  paint,  —  hides  all  the  ugliness." 

While  I  was  making  my  salutations,  the  Czarina  rose  very 
quietly,  and  presently,  to  my  no  small  astonishment,  brought 
me  with  her  own  hand  a  tolerably  large  glass  of  raw  brandy. 
There  is  nothing  in  the  world  I  hate  so  much  as  brandy;  how- 
ever, I  swallowed  the  potation  as  if  it  had  been  nectar,  and 
made  some  fine  speech  about  it,  which  the  good  Czarina  did 
not  seem  perfectly  to  understand.  I  then,  after  a  few  pre- 
liminary observations,  entered  upon  my  main  business  with 
the  Czar.  Her  Majesty  sat  at  a  little  distance,  but  evidently 
listened  very  attentively  to  the  conversation.     I  could  not 


DEVEREUX.  341 

but  be  struck  with  the  singularly  bold  and  strong  sense  of  my 
royal  host.  There  was  no  hope  of  deluding  or  misleading 
him  by  diplomatic  subterfuge.  The  only  way  by  which  that 
wonderful  man  was  ever  misled  was  through  his  passions. 
His  reason  conquered  all  errors  but  those  of  temperament.  I 
turned  the  conversation  as  artfully  as  I  could  upon  Sweden 
and  Charles  XII.  "Hatred  to  one  power,"  thought  I,  "may 
produce  love  to  another;  and  if  it  does,  the  child  will  spring 
from  a  very  vigorous  parent."  While  I  was  on  this  subject, 
I  observed  a  most  fearful  convulsion  come  over  the  face  of 
the  Czar, — one  so  fearful  that  I  involuntarily  looked  away. 
Fortunate  was  it  that  I  did  so.  Nothing  ever  enraged  him 
more  than  being  observed  in  those  constitutional  contortions 
of  countenance  to  which  from  his  youth  he  had  been  subjected. 

After  I  had  conversed  with  the  Czar  as  long  as  I  thought 
decorum  permitted,  I  rose  to  depart.  He  dismissed  me  very 
complaisantly.  I  re-entered  my  fine  equipage,  and  took  the 
best  of  my  way  home. 

Two  or  three  days  afterwards,  the  Czar  ordered  me  to  be 
invited  to  a  grand  dinner  at  Apraxin's.  I  went  there,  and  so 
found  myself  in  conversation  with  a  droll  little  man,  a 
Dutch  Minister,  and  a  great  favourite  with  the  Czar.  The 
Admiral  and  his  wife,  before  we  sat  down  to  eat,  handed 
round  to  each  of  their  company  a  glass  of  brandy  on  a  plate. 

"  What  an  odious  custom ! "  whispered  the  little  Dutch 
Minister,  smacking  his  lips,  however,  with  an  air  of  tolerable 
content. 

"Why,"  said  I,  prudently,  "all  countries  have  their  cus- 
toms. Some  centuries  ago,  a  French  traveller  thought  it  hor- 
rible in  us  Englishmen  to  eat  raw  oysters.  But  the  English 
were  in  the  right  to  eat  oysters;  and  perhaps,  by  and  by,  so 
much  does  civilization  increase,  we  shall  think  the  Russians 
in  the  right  to  drink  brandy.  But  really  [we  had  now  sat 
down  to  the  entertainment],  I  am  agreeably  surprised  here. 
All  the  guests  are  dressed  like  my  own  countrymen;  a  great 
decorum  reigns  around.  If  it  were  a  little  less  cold,  I  might 
fancy  myself  in  London  or  in  Paris." 

"Wait,"  quoth  the  little  Dutchman,  with  his  mouth  full  of 


342  DEVEREUX. 

jelly  broth,  "  wait  till  you  hear  them  talk.  What  think  you, 
now,  that  lady  next  me  is  saying?  " 

"I  cannot  guess:  but  she  has  the  prettiest  smile  in  the 
world;  and  there  is  something  at  once  so  kind  and  so  respect- 
ful in  her  manner  that  I  should  say  she  was  either  asking 
some  great  favour,   or  returning  thanks  for  one." 

"Right,"  cried  the  little  Minister,  "I  will  interpret  for 
you.  She  is  saying  to  that  old  gentleman,  'Sir,  I  am  ex- 
tremely grateful  —  and  may  Saint  Xicholas  bless  you  for  it  — 
for  your  very  great  kindness  in  having,  the  day  before  yes- 
terday, at  your  sumptuous  entertainment,  made  me  so 
deliciously  —  drunk ! '  " 

"You  are  witty,  Monsieur,"  said  I,  smiling.  "Se  non  e 
vero  e  ben  trovato." 

"By  my  soul,  it  is  true,"  cried  the  Dutchman;  "but,  hush! 
— see,  they  are  going  to  cut  up  that  great  pie." 

I  turned  my  e^-es  to  the  centre  of  the  table,  which  was  or- 
namented with  a  huge  pasty.  Presently  it  was  cut  open,  and 
out  —  walked  a  hideous  little  dwarf. 

"Are  they  going  to  eat  him?"  said  I. 

"Ha!  ha!"  laughed  the  Dutchman.  "Xo!  this  is  a  fash- 
ion of  the  Czar's,  which  the  Admiral  thinks  it  good  policy  to 
follow.  See,  it  tickles  the  hebete  Russians.  They  are  quite 
merr}'  on  it." 

"To  be  sure,"  said  I;  "practical  jokes  are  the  only  witti- 
cisms savages  understand." 

"Ay,  and  if  it  were  not  for  such  jokes  now  and  then,  the 
Czar  would  be  odiovis  beyond  measure;  but  dwarf  pies  and 
mock  processions  make  his  subjects  almost  forgive  him  for 
having  shortened  their  clothes  and  clipped  their  beards." 

"The  Czar  is  very  fond  of  those  mock  processions?'' 

"Fond!  "  and  the  little  man  sank  his  voice  into  a  whisper; 
"he  is  the  sublimest  buffoon  that  ever  existed.  I  will  tell 
you  an  instance  —  Do  you  like  these  Hungary  wines,  by  the 
by?  —  On  the  9th  of  last  June,  the  Czar  carried  me,  and  half- 
a-dozen  more  of  the  foreign  ministers,  to  his  pleasure -house 
(Peterhoff).  Dinner,  as  usual,  all  drunk  with  Tokay,  and 
finished  by  a  quart  of  brandy  each,  from  her  Majesty's  ovrn 


DEVEREUX.  843 

hand.  Carried  off  to  sleep, — some  in  the  garden,  some  in 
the  wood.  Woke  at  four,  still  in  the  clouds.  Carried  back 
to  the  pleasure -house,  found  the  Czar  there,  made  us  a  low 
bow,  and  gave  us  a  hatchet  apiece,  with  orders  to  follow  him. 
Off  we  trudged,  rolling  about  like  ships  in  the  Zuyder  Zee, 
entered  a  wood,  and  were  immediately  set  to  work  at  cutting 
a  road  through  it.  Nice  work  for  us  of  the  corps  diplo- 
matique t  And,  by  my  soul.  Sir,  you  see  that  I  am  by  no 
means  a  thin  man !  We  had  three  hours  of  it,  were  carried 
back,  made  drunk  again,  sent  to  bed,  roused  again  in  an  hour, 
made  drunk  a  third  time ;  and,  because  we  could  not  be  waked 
again,  left  in  peace  till  eight  the  next  morning.  Invited  to 
court  to  breakfast ;  such  headaches  we  had ;  longed  for  coffee ; 
found  nothing  but  brandy;  forced  to  drink;  sick  as  dogs; 
sent  to  take  an  airing  upon  the  most  damnable  little  horses, 
not  worth  a  guilder,  no  bridles  nor  saddles;   bump  —  bump 

—  bump  we  go,  up  and  down  before  the  Czar's  window, —  he 
and  the  Czarina  looking  at  us.  I  do  assure  you  I  lost  two 
stone  by  that  ride, —  two  stone.  Sir! — taken  to  dinner;  drunk 
again,  by  the  Lord,  all  bundled  on  board  a  torrenschute  ;  devil 
of  a  storm  came  on;  Czar  took  the  rudder;  Czarina  on  high 
benches  in  the  cabin,  which  was  full  of  water;  waves  beating; 
winds  blowing;  certain  of  being  drowned;  charming  prospect! 

—  tossed  about  for  seven  hours;  driven  into  the  port  of  Crons- 
fiot.  Czar  leaves  us,  saying,  'Too  much  of  a  jest,  eh,  gentle- 
men? '  All  got  ashore  wet  as  dog-fishes,  made  a  fire,  stripped 
stark  naked  (a  Dutch  ambassador  stark  naked,  —  think  of  it, 
Sir !),  crept  into  some  covers  of  sledges,  and  rose  next  morning 
with  the  ague, — positive  fact,  Sir!  Had  the  ague  for  two 
months.  Saw  the  Czar  in  August;  *A  charming  excursion  to 
my  pleasure-house,'  said  his  Majesty;  *we  must  make  another 
party  there  soon.' " 

As  the  Dutchman  delivered  himself  of  the  little  history  he 
was  by  no  means  forgetful  of  the  Hungary  wines ;  and  as  Bac- 
chus and  Venus  have  old  affinity,  he  now  began  to  grow  elo- 
quent on  the  women. 

"What  think  you  6f  them  yourself?"  said  he;  "they  have 
a  rolling  look,  eh?  " 


344  DEVEREUX. 

"They  have  so,"  I  answered:  "but  they  all  have  black 
teeth;  what's  the  reason?" 

"  They  think  it  a  beauty,  and  say  white  teeth  are  the  sign 
of  a  blackamoor." 

Here  the  Dutchman  was  accosted  by  some  one  else,  and 
there  was  a  pause.  Dinner  at  last  ceased;  the  guests  did  not 
sit  long  after  dinner,  and  for  a  very  good  reason:  the  brandy 
bowl  is  a  great  enforcer  of  a  prostrate  position!  I  had  the 
satisfaction  of  seeing  the  company  safely  under  the  table. 
The  Dutchman  went  first,  and,  having  dexterously  manoeuvred 
an  escape  from  utter  oblivion  for  myself,  I  managed  to  find 
my  way  home,  more  edified  than  delighted  by  the  character 
of  a  Russian  entertainment. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

CONVERSATIONS     WITH    THE    CZAR. IF  CROMWELL    WAS    THE 

GREATEST     MAN     (c^SAR     EXCEPTED)  WHO      EVER     ROSE     TO 

THE     SUPREME     POWER,      PETER     WAS  THE      GREATEST      MAN" 
EVER   BORN  TO   IT. 

It  was  singular  enough  that  my  introduction  to  the  notice 
of  Peter  the  Great  and  Philip  le  Debonnaire  should  have 
taken  place  under  circumstances  so  far  similar  that  both 
those  illustrious  personages  were  playing  the  part  rather  of 
subjects  than  of  princes.  I  cannot,  however,  conceive  a 
greater  mark  of  the  contrast  between  their  characters  than 
the  different  motives  and  manners  of  the  incognitos  severally 
assumed. 

Philip,  in  a  scene  of  low  riot  and  debauch,  hiding  the  Jupi- 
ter under  the  Silenus, — wearing  the  mask  only  for  the  licen- 
tiousness it  veiled,  and  foregoing  the  prerogative  of  power, 
solely  for  indulgence  in  the  grossest  immunities  of  vice. 

Peter,  on  the  contrary,  parting  with  the  selfishness  of  state 
in  order  to  watch  the  more  keenly  over  the  interests  of  his 


DEVEREUX.  345 

people,  only  omitting  to  preside  in  order  to  examine,  and 
affecting  the  subject  only  to  learn  the  better  the  duties  of  the 
prince.  Had  I  leisure,  I  might  here  pause  to  point  out  a 
notable  contrast,  not  between  the  Czar  and  the  Kegent,  but 
between  Peter  the  Great  and  Louis  le  Grand:  both  creators  of 
a  new  era, —  both  associated  with  a  vast  change  in  the  condi- 
tion of  two  mighty  empires.  There  ceases  the  likeness  and 
begins  the  contrast:  the  blunt  simplicity  of  Peter,  the  gor- 
geous magnificence  of  Louis ;  the  sternness  of  a  legislator  for 
barbarians,  the  clemency  of  an  idol  of  courtiers.  One  the 
victorious  defender  of  his  country,  —  a  victory  solid,  durable, 
and  just;  the  other  the  conquering  devastator  of  a  neighbour- 
ing people, —  a  victory,  glittering,  evanescent,  and  dishonour- 
able. The  one,  in  peace,  rejecting  parade,  pomp,  individual 
honours,  and  transforming  a  wilderness  into  an  empire:  the 
other  involved  in  ceremony,  and  throned  on  pomp;  and  ex- 
hausting the  produce  of  millions  to  pamper  the  bloated  vanity 
of  an  individual.  The  one  a  fire  that  burns,  without  enlight- 
ening beyond  a  most  narrow  circle,  and  whose  lustre  is  tracked 
by  what  it  ruins,  and  fed  by  what  it  consumes ;  the  other  a 
luminary,  whose  light,  not  so  dazzling  in  its  rays,  spreads 
over  a  world,  and  is  noted,  not  for  what  it  destroys,  but  for 
what  it  vivifies  and  creates. 

I  cannot  say  that  it  was  much  to  my  credit  that,  while  I 
thought  the  Eegent's  condescension  towards  nie  natural 
enough,  I  was  a  little  surprised  by  the  favour  shown  me  by 
the  Czar.  At  Paris,  I  had  seemed  to  be  the  man  of  pleasure : 
that  alone  was  enough  to  charm  Philip  of  Orleans.  But  in 
Eussia,  what  could  I  seem  in  any  way  calculated  to  charm  the 
Czar?  I  could  neither  make  ships  nor  could  sail  them  when 
they  were  made;  I  neither  knew,  nor,  what  was  worse,  cared 
to  know,  the  stern  from  the  rudder.  Mechanics  were  a  mys- 
tery to  me;  road-making  was  an  incomprehensible  science. 
Brandy  I  could  not  endure;  a  blunt  bearing  and  familiar 
manner  I  could  not  assume.  What  was  it,  then,  that  made 
the  Czar  call  upon  me,  at  least  twice  a  week  in  private,  shut 
himself  up  with  me  by  the  hour  together,  and  endeavour  to 
make  me  drunk  with  Tokay,  in  order  (as  he  very  incautiously 


346  DEVEREUX. 

let  out  one  night),  "to  learn  the  secrets  of  my  heart"?  I 
thought,  at  first,  that  the  nature  of  my  mission  was  enough 
to  solve  the  riddle :  but  we  talked  so  little  about  it  that,  with 
all  my  diplomatic  vanities  fresh  about  me,  I  could  not  help 
feeling  I  owed  the  honour  I  received  less  to  my  qualities  as 
a  minister  than  to  those  as  an  individual. 

At  last,  however,  I  found  that  the  secret  attraction  was 
what  the  Czar  termed  the  philosophical  channel  into  which 
our  conferences  flowed.  I  never  saw  a  man  so  partial  to 
moral  problems  and  metaphysical  inquiries,  especially  to 
those  connected  with  what  ought  to  be  the  beginning  or  the 
end  of  all  moral  sciences, —  politics.  Sometimes  we  would 
wander  out  in  disguise,  and  select  some  object  from  the  cus- 
toms or  things  around  us,  as  the  theme  of  reflection  and  dis- 
cussion; nor  in  these  moments  would  the  Czar  ever  allow  me 
to  yield  to  his  rank  what  I  might  not  feel  disposed  to  concede 
to  his  arguments.  One  day,  I  remember  that  he  arrested  me 
in  the  streets,  and  made  me  accompany  him  to  look  upon  two 
men  undergoing  the  fearful  punishment  of  the  battaog;^  one 
was  a  German,  the  other  a  Russian:  the  former  shrieked 
violently,  struggled  in  the  hands  of  his  punishers,  and,  with 
the  utmost  difficulty,  was  subjected  to  his  penalty;  the  latter 
bore  it  patiently  and  in  silence;  he  only  spoke  once,  and  it 
was  to  say,   "God  bless  the  Czar!" 

"Can  your  Majesty  hear  the  man,"  said  I,  warmly,  when  the 
Czar  interpreted  these  words  to  me,  "and  not  pardon  him?" 

Peter  frowned,  but  I  was  not  silenced.  "  You  don't  know 
the  Russians ! "  said  he,  sharply,  and  turned  aside.  The 
punishment  was  now  over.  "Ask  the  German,"  said  the 
Czar  to  an  officer,  "what  was  his  offence?"  The  German, 
who  was  writhing  and  howling  horribly,  uttered  some  violent 
words  against  the  disgrace  of  the  punishment,  and  the  petti- 
ness of  his  fault;  what  the  fault  was  I  forget. 

"Kow  ask  the  Russian,"  said  Peter.  "My  punishment  was 
just!"  said  the  Russian,  coolly,  putting  on  his  clothes  as  if 
nothing  had  happened;  "God  and  the  Czar  were  angry  with 
me!" 

1  A  terrible  kind  of  flogging,  but  less  severe  than  the  knout. 


m 


DEVEREUX.  347 

"Come  away,  Count,"  said  the  Czar;  "and  now  solve  me  a 
problem.  I  know  both  those  men;  and  the  German,  in  a 
battle,  would  be  the  braver  of  the  two.  How  comes  it  that 
he  weeps  and  writhes  like  a  girl,  while  the  Kussian  bears  the 
same  pain  without  a  murmur?  " 

"Will  your  Majesty  forgive  me,"  said  I,  "but  I  cannot  help 
wishing  that  the  Eussian  had  complained  more  bitterly;  in- 
sensibility to  punishment  is  the  sign  of  a  brute,  not  a  hero. 
Do  you  not  see  that  the  German  felt  the  indignity,  the  Rus- 
sian did  not?  and  do  you  not  see  that  that  very  pride  which 
betrays  agony  under  the  disgrace  of  the  battaog  is  exactly  the 
very  feeling  that  would  have  produced  courage  in  the  glory 
of  the  battle?  A  sense  of  honour  makes  better  soldiers  and 
better  men  than  fndifference  to  pain." 

"But  had  I  ordered  the  Eussian  to  death,  he  would  have 
gone  with  the  same  apathy  and  the  same  speech,  'It  is  just! 
I  have  offended  God  and  the  Czar ! ' " 

"Dare  I  observe,  Sire,  that  that  fact  would  be  a  strong 
proof  of  the  dangerous  falsity  of  the  old  maxims  which  extol 
indifference  to  death  as  a  virtue?  In  some  individuals  it  may 
be  a  sign  of  virtue,  I  allow;  but,  as  a  national  trait,  it  is  the 
strongest  sign  of  national  misery.  Look  round  the  great 
globe.  What  countries  are  those  where  the  inhabitants  bear 
death  with  cheerfulness,  or,  at  least,  with  apathy?  Are  they 
the  most  civilized,  the  most  free,  the  most  prosperous?  Par- 
don me;  no!  They  are  the  half-starved,  half -clothed,  half- 
human  sons  of  the  forest  and  the  waste ;  or,  when  gathered  in 
states,  they  are  slaves  without  enjoyment  or  sense  beyond  the 
hour;  and  the  reason  that  they  do  not  recoil  from  the  pangs 
of  death  is  because  they  have  never  known  the  real  pleasures 
or  the  true  objects  of  life." 

"Yet,"  said  the  Czar,  musingly,  "the  contempt  of  death 
■was  the  great  characteristic  of  the  Spartans." 

"And,  therefore,"  said  I,  "the  great  token  that  the  Spar- 
tans were  a  miserable  horde.  Your  Majesty  admires  England 
and  the  English;  you  have,  beyond  doubt,  witnessed  an  exe- 
cution in  that  country ;  you  have  noted,  even  where  the  crim- 
inal is  consoled  by  religion,  how  he  trembles,  and  shrinks, — 


348  DEVEREUX. 

how  dejected,  how  prostrate  of  heart  he  is  before  the  doom  is 
completed.  Take  now  the  vilest  slave,  either  of  the  Emperor 
of  Morocco  or  the  great  Czar  of  Russia.  He  changes  neither 
tint  nor  muscle ;  he  requires  no  consolation ;  he  shrinks  from 
no  torture.  What  is  the  inference?  That  slaves  dread  death 
less  than  the  free.  And  it  should  be  so.  The  end  of  legisla- 
tion is  not  to  make  death,  but  life,  a  blessing." 

"You  have  put  the  matter  in  a  new  light,"  said  the  Czar; 
"  but  you  allow  that,  in  individuals,  contempt  of  death  is  some- 
times a  virtue." 

"Yes,  when  it  springs  from  mental  reasonings,  not  physical 
indifference.  But  your  Majesty  has  already  put  in  action 
one  vast  spring  of  a  system  which  will  ultimately  open  to 
your  subjects  so  many  paths  of  existence  that  they  will  pre- 
serve contempt  for  its  proper  objects,  and  not  lavish  it  solely, 
as  they  do  now,  on  the  degradation  which  sullies  life  and  the 
axe  that  ends  it.  You  have  already  begun  the  conquest  of 
another  and  a  most  vital  error  in  the  philosophy  of  the  an- 
cients,—  that  philosophy  taught  that  man  should  have  few 
wants,  and  made  it  a  crime  to  increase  and  a  virtue  to  reduce 
them.  A  legislator  should  teach,  on  the  contrary,  that  man 
should  have  many  wants :  for  wants  are  not  only  the  sources 
of  enjoyment, — they  are  the  sources  of  improvement;  and 
that  nation  will  be  the  most  enlightened  among  whose  popu- 
lace they  are  found  the  most  numerous.  You,  Sire,  by  circu- 
lating the  arts,  the  graces,  create  a  vast  herd  of  moral  wants 
hitherto  unknown,  and  in  those  wants  will  hereafter  be  found 
the  prosperity  of  your  people,  the  fountain  of  your  resources, 
and  the  strength  of  your  empire." 

In  conversation  on  these  topics  we  often  passed  hours  to- 
gether, and  from  such  conferences  the  Czar  passed  only  to 
those  on  other  topics  more  immediately  useful  to  him.  No 
man,  perhaps,  had  a  larger  share  of  the  mere  human  frailties 
than  Peter  the  Great;  yet  I  do  confess  that  when  I  saw  the 
nobleness  of  mind  with  which  he  flung  aside  his  rank  as  a 
robe,  and  repaired  from  man  to  man,  the  humblest  or  the 
highest,  the  artisan  or  the  prince, —  the  prosperity  of  his  sub-* 
jects  his  only  object,  and  the  acquisition  of  knowledge  his  only 


DEVEREUX.  349 

means  to  obtain  it,  —  I  do  confess  that  my  mental  sight  re- 
fused even  to  perceive  his  frailties,  and  that  I  could  almost 
have  bent  the  knee  in  worship  to  a  being  whose  benevolence 
was  so  pervading  a  spirit,  and  whose  power  was  so  glorious  a 
minister  to  utility. 

Towards  the  end  of  January,  I  completed  my  mission,  and 
took  my  leave  of  the  court  of  Russia. 

"Tell  the  Regent,"  said  Peter,  "that  I  shall  visit  him  in 
France  soon,  and  shall  expect  to  see  his  drawings  if  I  show 
hira  my  models." 

In  effect,  the  next  month  (February  16),  the  Czar  com- 
menced his  second  course  of  travels.  He  was  pleased  to  tes- 
tify some  regard  for  me  on  my  departure.  "If  ever  you  quit 
the  service  of  the  French  court,  and  your  own  does  not  re- 
quire you,  I  implore  you  to  come  to  me ;  I  will  give  you  carte 
hlanche  as  to  the  nature  and  appointments  of  your  office." 

I  need  not  say  that  I  expressed  my  gratitude  for  the  royal 
condescension;  nor  that,  in  leaving  Russia,  I  brought,  from 
the  example  of  its  sovereign,  a  greater  desire  to  be  useful  to 
mankind  than  I  had  known  before.  Pattern  and  Teacher  of 
kings,  if  each  country  in  each  century  had  produced  one  such 
ruler  as  you,  either  all  mankind  would  noiv  be  contented  with 
despotism  or  all  mankind  would  be  free  !  Oh !  when  kings 
have  only  to  be  good,  to  be  kept  forever  in  our  hearts  and 
souls  as  the  gods  and  benefactors  of  the  earth,  by  what  mon- 
strous fatality  have  they  been  so  blind  to  their  fame?  When 
we  remember  the  millions,  the  generations,  they  can  degrade, 
destroy,  elevate,  or  save,  we  might  almost  think  (even  if  the 
other  riddles  of  the  present  existence  did  not  require  a  fiiture 
existence  to  solve  them),  we  might  almost  think  a  hereafter 
necessary,  were  it  but  for  the  sole  purpose  of  requiting  the 
virtues  of  princes,  —  or  their  sins!^ 

^  Upon  his  death-bed  Peter  is  reported  to  have  said,  "  God,  I  dare  trust, 
will  look  mercifully  upon  my  faults  in  consideration  of  the  good  I  have  done 
my  country."  These  are  worthy  to  be  the  last  words  of  a  king!  Rarely  has 
there  been  a  monarch  who  more  required  the  forgiveness  of  the  Creator ;  yet 
seldom  perhaps  has  there  been  a  human  being  who  more  deserved  it.  —  Ed. 


350  DEVEREUX. 


CHAPTER   V. 

RETURN     TO      PARIS.  INTERVIEW     WITH     BOLINGBROKE.  A 

GALLANT      ADVENTURE. AFFAIR     WITH      DUBOIS.^ PUBLIC 

LIFE    IS    A     DRAMA,     IN     WHICH     PRIVATE     VICES     GENERALLY 
PLAY    THE    PART    OF    THE    SCENE-SHIFTERS. 

It  is  a  strange  feeling  we  experience  on  entering  a  great 
city  by  night, —  a  strange  mixture  of  social  and  solitary  im- 
pressions. I  say  by  night,  because  at  that  time  we  are  most 
inclined  to  feel ;  and  the  mind,  less  distracted  than  in  the  day 
by  external  objects,  dwells  the  more  intensely  upon  its  own 
hopes  and  thoughts,  remembrances  and  associations,  and 
sheds  over  them,  from  that  one  feeling  which  it  cherishes 
the  most,   a  blending  and  a  mellowing  hue. 

It  was  at  night  that  I  re-entered  Paris.  I  did  not  tarry 
long  at  my  hotel,  before  (though  it  was  near  upon  midnight) 
I  conveyed  myself  to  Lord  Bolingbroke's  lodgings.  Knowing 
his  engagements  at  St.  Germains,  where  the  Chevalier  (who 
had  but  a  very  few  weeks  before  returned  to  France,  after 
the  crude  and  unfortunate  affair  of  1715),  chiefly  resided,  I 
was  not  very  sanguine  in  my  hopes  of  finding  him  at  Paris.  I 
was,  however,  agreeably  surprised.  His  servant  would  have 
ushered  me  into  his  study,  but  I  was  willing  to  introduce  my- 
self.    I  withheld  the  servant,  and  entered  the  room  alone. 

The  door  was  ajar,  and  Bolingbroke  neither  heard  nor  saw 
me.  There  was  something  in  his  attitude  and  aspect  which 
made  me  pause  to  survey  him,  before  I  made  myself  known. 
He  was  sitting  by  a  table  covered  with  books.  A  large  folio 
(it  was  the  Casaubon  edition  of  Polybius)  was  lying  open  be- 
fore him.  I  recognized  the  work  at  once :  it  was  a  favourite 
book  with  Bolingbroke,  and  we  had  often  discussed  the  merits 
of  its  author.  I  smiled  as  I  saw  that  that  book,  which  has 
to  statesmen  so  peculiar  an  attraction,  made  still  the  study 
from  which  the  busy,  restless,  ardent,  and  exalted  spirit  of 


DEVEREUX.  351 

the  statesman  before  me  drew  its  intellectual  food.  But  at 
the  moment  in  which  I  entered  his  eye  was  absent  fi-om  the 
page,  and  turned  abstractedly  in  an  opposite  though  still 
downcast  direction.  His  countenance  was  extremely  pale, 
his  lips  were  tightly  compressed,  and  an  air  of  deep  thought, 
mingled  as  it  seemed  to  me  with  sadness,  made  the  ruling 
expression  of  his  lordly  and  noble  features.  "It  is  the  torpor 
of  ambition  after  one  of  its  storms,"  said  I,  inly;  and  I  ap- 
proached,  and  laid  my  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

After  our  mutual  greetings,  I  said,  "Have  the  dead  so 
strong  an  attraction  that  at  this  hour  they  detain  the  courted 
and  courtly  Bolingbroke  from  the  admiration  and  converse  of 
the  living?" 

The  statesman  looked  at  me  earnestly:  "Have  you  heard 
the  news  of  the  day?"    said  he. 

"How  is  it  possible?    I  have  but  just  arrived  at  Paris." 

"You  do  not  know,  then,  that  I  have  resigned  my  office 
under  the  Chevalier!" 

"  Resigned  your  office !  " 

"Resigned  is  a  wrong  word:  I  received  a  dismissal.  Im- 
mediately on  his  return  the  Chevalier  sent  for  me,  embraced 
me,  desired  me  to  prepare  to  follow  him  to  Lorraine;  and 
three  days  afterwards  came  the  Duke  of  Ormond  to  me,  to 
ask  me  to  deliver  up  the  seals  and  papers.  I  put  the  latter 
very  carefully  in  a  little  letter-case,  and  behold  an  end  to  the 
administration  of  Lord  Bolingbroke!  The  Jacobites  abuse 
me  terribly;  their  king  accuses  me  of  neglect,  incapacity,  and 
treachery;  and  Fortune  pulls  down  the  fabric  she  has  built 
for  me,   in  order  to  pelt  me  with  the  stones ! "  ^ 

"  My  dear,  dear  friend,  I  am  indeed  grieved  for  you ;  but  I 
am  more  incensed  at  the  infatuation  of  the  Chevalier.  Surely, 
surely  he  must  already  have  seen  his  error,  and  solicited 
your  return?" 

"Return!"  cried  Bolingbroke,  and  his  eyes  flashed  fire, — 

"  return !  —    Hear  what  I  said  to  the  Queen-Mother  who  came 

to  attempt  a  reconciliation:    'jVladam, '  said   I,   in  a  tone   as 

calm  as  I  could  command,  '  if  ever  this  hand  draws  the  sword, 

1  Letter  to  Sir  W.  Windham.  —  Ed. 


352  DEVEREUX. 

or  employs  the  pen,  in  behalf  of  that  prince,  may  it  rot ! ' 
Eeturn!  not  if  my  head  were  the  price  of  refusal!  Yet, 
Devereux,"  —  and  here  Bolingbroke's  voice  and  manner 
changed, —  "yet  it  is  not  at  these  tricks  of  fate  that  a  wise 
man  will  repine.  We  do  right  to  cultivate  honours ;  they  are 
sources  of  gratification  to  ourselves :  they  are  more ;  they  are 
incentives  to  the  conduct  which  works  benefits  to  others ;  but 
we  do  wrong  to  afflict  ourselves  at  their  loss.  '  Nee  quaerere 
nee  spernere  honores  oportet.'  ^  It  is  good  to  enjoy  the  bless- 
ings of  fortune :  it  is  better  to  submit  without  a  pang  to  their 
loss.  You  remember,  when  you  left  me,  I  was  preparing 
myself  for  this  stroke:  believe  me,  I  am  now  prepared." 

And  in  truth  Bolingbroke  bore  the  ingratitude  of  the 
Chevalier  well.  Soon  afterwards  he  carried  his  long  cher- 
ished wishes  for  retirement  into  effect;  and  Fate,  who  de- 
lights in  reversing  her  disk,  leaving  in  darkness  what  she 
had  just  illumined,  and  illumining  what  she  had  hitherto 
left  in  obscurity  and  gloom,  for  a  long  interval  separated  us 
from  each  other,  no  less  by  his  seclusion  than  by  the  publi- 
city to  which  she  condemned  myself. 

Lord  Bolingbroke's  dismissal  was  not  the  only  event  affect- 
ing me  that  had  occurred  during  my  absence  from  France. 
Among  the  most  active  partisans  of  the  Chevalier,  in  the  ex- 
pedition of  Lord  Mar,  had  been  Montreuil.  So  great,  indeed, 
had  been  either  his  services  or  the  idea  entertained  of  their 
value,  that  a  reward  of  extraordinary  amount  was  offered  for 
his  head.  Hitherto  he  had  escaped,  and  was  supposed  to  be 
still  in  Scotland. 

But  what  affected  me  more  nearly  was  the  condition  of 
Gerald's  circumstances.  On  the  breaking  out  of  the  rebellion 
he  had  been  suddenly  seized,  and  detained  in  prison;  and  it 
was  only  upon  the  escape  of  the  Chevalier  that  he  was  re- 
leased: apparently,  however,  nothing  had  been  proved  against 
him;  and  my  absence  from  the  head-quarters  of  intelligence 
left  me  in  ignorance  both  of  the  grounds  of  his  imprisonment 
and  the  circumstances  of  his  release. 

I  heard,  however,  from  Bolingbroke,  who  seemed  to  possess 
^  "  It  becomes  us  neither  to  court  nor  to  despise  honours." 


DEVEREUX.  353 

some  of  that  information  which  the  ecclesiastical  intriguants 
of  the  day  so  curiously  transmitted  from  court  to  court  and 
corner  to  corner,  that  Gerald  had  retired  to  Devereux  Court 
in  great  disgust  at  his  confinement.  However,  when  I  con- 
sidered his  bold  character,  his  close  intimacy  with  Montreuil, 
and  the  genius  for  intrigue  which  that  priest  so  eminently 
possessed,  I  was  not  much  inclined  to  censure  the  government 
for  unnecessary  precaution  in  his  imprisonment. 

There  was  another  circumstance  connected  with  the  rebel- 
lion which  possessed  for  me  an  individual  and  deep  interest. 
A  man  of  the  name  of  Barnard  had  been  executed  in  England 
for  seditious  and  treasonable  practices.  I  took  especial  pains 
to  ascertain  every  particular  respecting  him.  I  learned  that 
he  was  young,  of  inconsiderable  note,  but  esteemed  clever; 
and  had,  long  previously  to  the  death  of  the  Queen,  been  se- 
cretly employed  by  the  friends  of  the  Chevalier.  This  cir- 
cumstance occasioned  me  much  internal  emotion,  though  there 
could  be  no  doubt  that  the  Barnard  whom  I  had  such  cause 
to  execrate  had  only  borrowed  from  this  minion  the  disguise 
of  his  name. 

The  Regent  received  me  with  all  the  graciousness  and  com- 
plaisance for  which  he  was  so  remarkable.  To  say  the  truth, 
my  mission  had  been  extremely  fortunate  in  its  results;  the 
only  cause  in  which  the  Eegent  was  concerned  the  interests 
of  which  Peter  the  Great  appeared  to  disregard  was  that  of 
the  Chevalier;  but  I  had  been  fully  instructed  on  that  head 
anterior  to  my  legation. 

There  appears  very  often  to  be  a  sort  of  moral  fitness  be- 
tween the  beginning  and  the  end  of  certain  alliances  or  ac- 
quaintances. This  sentiment  is  not  very  clearly  expressed. 
I  am  about  to  illustrate  it  by  an  important  event  in  my  polit- 
ical life.  During  my  absence  Dubois  had  made  rapid  steps 
towards  being  a  great  man.  He  was  daily  growing  into 
power,  and  those  courtiers  who  were  neither  too  haughty  nor 
too  honest  to  bend  the  knee  to  so  vicious  yet  able  a  minion 
had  already  singled  him  out  as  a  fit  person  to  flatter  and  to 
rise  by.  For  me,  I  neither  sought  nor  avoided  him :  but  he 
was  as  civil  towards  me  as  his  bnisque  temper  permitted  him 

23 


354  DEVEREUX. 

to  be  towards  most  persons ;  and  as  our  careers  were  not  likely 
to  cross  one  another,  I  thought  I  might  reckon  on  his  neutral- 
ity, if  not  on  his  friendship.  Chance  turned  the  scale  against 
me. 

One  day  I  received  an  anonymous  letter,  requesting  me  to 

be,  at  such  an  hour,  at  a  certain  house  in  the  Eue .     It 

occurred  to  me  as  no  improbable  supposition  that  the  appoint- 
ment might  relate  to  my  individual  circumstances,  whether 
domestic  or  political,  and  I  certainly  had  not  at  the  moment 
any  ideas  of  gallantry  in  my  brain.  At  the  hour  prescribed 
I  appeared  at  the  place  of  assignation.  My  mind  misgave  me 
when  I  saw  a  female  conduct  me  into  a  little  chamber  hung 
with  tapestry  descriptive  of  the  loves  of  Mars  and  Venus. 
After  I  had  cooled  my  heels  in  this  apartment  about  a  quar- 
ter of  an  hour,  in  sailed  a  tall  woman,  of  a  complexion  almost 
Moorish.  I  bowed;  the  lady  sighed.  An  eclaircissement 
ensued;  and  I  found  that  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  the 
object  of  a  caprice  in  the  favourite  mistress  of  the  Abbe  Du- 
bois. Nothing  was  further  from  my  wishes !  "What  a  pity  it 
is  that  one  cannot  always  tell  a  woman  one's  mind! 

I  attempted  a  flourish  about  friendship,  honour,  and  the  re- 
spect due  to  the  atnante  of  the  most  intimate  ami  I  had  in  the 
world. 

"Pooh!"  said  the  tawny  Calypso,  a  little  pettishly, — 
"pooh!    one  does  not  talk  of  those  things  here." 

"Madame,"  said  I,  very  energetically,  "I  implore  you  to 
refrain.  Do  not  excite  too  severe  a  contest  between  passion 
and  duty!  I  feel  that  I  must  fly  you:  you  are  already  too 
bewitching." 

Just  as  I  rose  to  depart  in  rushes  the  femme  de  chamhre, 
and  announces,  not  Monsieur  the  Abbe,  but  Monseigneur  the 
Regent.  Of  course  (the  old  resort  in  such  cases)  I  was  thrust 
in  a  closet;  in  marches  his  Eoyal  Highness,  and  is  received 
very  cavalierly.  It  is  quite  astonishing  to  me  what  airs  those 
women  give  themselves  when  they  have  princes  to  manage! 
However,  my  confinement  was  not  long :  the  closet  had  an- 
other door;  the/emme  de  chamhre  slips  round,  opens  it,  and  I 
congratulate  myself  on  my  escape. 


DEVEREUX.  355 

When  a  Frenchwoman  is  piqued,  she  passes  all  understand- 
ing. The  next  day  I  am  very  quietly  employed  at  breakfast, 
when  my  valet  ushers  in  a  masked  personage,  and  behold  my 
gentlewoman  again!  Human  endurance  will  not  go  too  far, 
and  this  was  a  case  which  required  one  to  be  in  a  passion  one 
way  or  the  other;  so  I  feigned  anger,  and  talked  with  exceed- 
ing dignity  about  the  predicament  I  had  been  placed  in  the 
day  before. 

"  Such  must  always  be  the  case, "  said  I,  "  when  one  is  weak 
enough  to  form  an  attachment  to  a  lady  who  encourages  so 
many  others ! " 

"For  your  sake,"  said  the  tender  dame,  "for  your  sake, 
then,  I  will  discard  them  all !  " 

There  was  something  grand  in  this :  it  might  have  elicited 
a  few  strokes  of  pathos,  when  —  never  was  there  anything  so 
strangely  provoking  —  the  Abbe  Dubois  himself  Avas  heard  in 
my  anteroom.  I  thought  this  chance,  but  it  was  more;  the 
good  Abbe,  I  afterwards  found,  had  traced  cause  for  suspicion, 
and  had  come  to  pay  me  a  visit  of  amatory  police.  I  opened 
my  dressing-room  door,  and  thrust  in  the  lady.  "There," 
said  I,  "are  the  back-stairs,  and  at  the  bottom  of  the  back- 
stairs is  a  door." 

Would  not  any  one  have  thought  this  hint  enough?  By  no 
means ;  this  very  tall  lady  stooped  to  the  littleness  of  listening, 
and,  instead  of  departing,  stationed  herself  by  the  keyhole. 

I  never  exactly  learned  whether  Dubois  suspected  the  visit 
his  mistress  had  paid  me,  or  whether  he  merely  surmised, 
from  his  spies  or  her  escritoire,  that  she  harboured  an  incli- 
nation towards  me ;  in  either  case  his  policy  was  natural,  and 
like  himself.  He  sat  himself  down,  talked  of  the  Regent,  of 
pleasure,  of  women,  and,  at  last,  of  this  very  tall  lady  in 
qiiestion. 

"  La  pauvre  'diahlesse, "  said  he,  contemptuously,  "  I  had 
once  compassion  on  her;  I  have  repented  it  ever  since.  You 
have  no  idea  what  a  terrible  creature  she  is ;  has  such  a  wen 
in  her  neck,  quite  a  goitre.  Mort  diable ! "  (and  the  Abb4 
spat  in  his  handkerchief),  "I  would  sooner  have  a  liaison 
with  the  witch  of  Endor!" 


356  DEVEREUX. 

Not  content  with  this,  he  went  on  in  his  usual  gross  and 
displeasing  manner  to  enumerate  or  to  forge  those  various 
particulars  of  her  personal  charms  which  he  thought  most 
likely  to  steel  me  against  her  attractions.  "  Thank  Heaven, 
at  least,"  thought  I,   "that  she  has  gone!" 

Scarcely  had  this  pious  gratulation  flowed  from  my  heart, 
before  the  door  was  burst  open,  and,  pale,  trembling,  eyes 
on  fire,  hands  clenched,  forth  stalked  the  lady  in  question. 
A  wonderful  proof  how  much  sooner  a  woman  would  lose  her 
character  than  allow  it  to  be  called  not  worth  the  losing! 
She  entered,  and  had  all  the  furies  of  Hades  lent  her  their 
tongues,  she  could  not  have  been  more  eloquent.  It  would 
have  been  a  very  pleasant  scene  if  one  had  not  been  a  partner 
in  it.  The  old  Abbe,  with  his  keen,  astute  marked  face, 
struggling  between  surprise,  fear,  the  sense  of  the  ridiculous, 
and  the  certainty  of  losing  his  mistress ;  the  lady,  foaming  at 
the  mouth,  and  shaking  her  clenched  hand  most  menacingly 
at  her  traducer;  myself  endeavouring  to  pacify,  and  acting, 
as  one  does  at  such  moments,  mechanically,  though  one  flat- 
ters one's  self  afterwards  that  one  acted  solely  from  wisdom. 

But  the  Abbe's  mistress  was  by  no  means  content  with  vin- 
dicating herself :  she  retaliated,  and  gave  so  minute  a  descrip- 
tion of  the  Abbe's  own  qualities  and  graces,  coupled  with  so 
many  pleasing  illustrations,  that  in  a  very  little  time  his 
coolness  forsook  him,  and  he  grew  in  as  great  a  rage  as  her- 
self. At  last  she  flew  out  of  the  room.  The  Abbe,  trembling 
with  passion,  shook  me  most  cordially  by  the  hand,  grinned 
from  ear  to  ear,  said  it  was  a  capital  joke,  wished  me  good- 
by  as  if  he  loved  me  better  than  his  eyes,  and  left  the  house 
my  most  irreconcilable  and  bitter  foe! 

How  could  it  be  otherwise?  The  rivalship  the  Abbe  might 
have  forgiven ;  such  things  happened  every  day  to  him :  but 
the  having  been  made  so  egregiously  ridiculous  the  Abbe 
could  not  forgive;  and  the  Abbe's  was  a  critical  age  for  jest- 
ing on  these  matters,  sixty  or  so.  And  then  such  unpalatable 
sarcasms  on  his  appearance!  "  'T  is  all  over  in  that  quarter," 
said  I  to  myself,  "but  we  may  find  another,"  and  I  drove  out 
that  very  day  to  pay  my  resj)ects  to  the  Regent. 


DEVEREUX.  357 

What  a  pity  it  is  that  one's  pride  should  so  often  be  the 
bane  of  one's  wisdom.  Ah!  that  one  could  be  as  good  a  man 
of  the  world  in  practice  as  one  is  in  theory !  my  master-stroke 
of  policy  at  that  moment  would  evidently  have  been  this :  I 
should  have  gone  to  the  Regent  and  made  out  a  story  similar 
to  the  real  one,  but  with  this  difference,  all  the  ridicule  of  the 
situation  should  have  fallen  upon  me,  and  the  little  Dubois 
should  have  been  elevated  on  a  pinnacle  of  respectable  ap- 
pearances! This,  as  the  Eegent  told  the  Abbe  everything, 
would  have  saved  me.  I  saw  the  plan ;  but  was  too  proud  to 
adopt  it;  I  followed  another  course  in  my  game:  I  threw 
away  the  knave,  and  played  with  the  king,  i.e.,  with  the  Ee- 
gent. After  a  little  preliminary  conversation,  I  turned  the 
conversation  on  the  Abbe. 

*'Ah!  the  scelerat  /  "  said  Philip,  smiling,  " 't  is  a  sad  dog, 
but  very  clever  and  loves  me ,  he  would  be  incomparable,  if 
he  were  but  decently  honest." 

"At  least,"  said  I,  "he  is  no  hypocrite,  and  that  is  some 
praise." 

"  Hem ! "  ejaculated  the  Duke,  very  slowly,  and  then, 
after  a  pause,  he  said,  "  Count,  I  have  a  real  kindness  for 
you,  and  I  will  therefore  give  you  a  piece  of  advice :  think  as 
well  of  Dubois  as  you  can,  and  address  him  as  if  he  were  all 
you  endeavoured  to  fancy  him." 

After  this  hint,  which  in  the  mouth  of  any  prince  but 
Philip  of  Orleans  would  have  been  not  a  little  remarkable  for 
its  want  of  dignity,  my  prospects  did  not  seem  much  brighter ; 
however,  I  was  not  discouraged. 

"  The  Abbe, "  said  I,  respectfully,  "  is  a  choleric  man :  one 
may  displease  him ;  but  dare  I  hope  that  so  long  as  I  preserve 
inviolate  my  zeal  and  my  attachment  to  the  interests  and  the 
person  of  your  Highness,  no  —  " 

The  Eegent  interrupted  me.  "You  mean  nobody  shall 
successfully  misrepresent  you  to  me?  Xo,  Count"  (and 
here  the  Eegent  spoke  with  the  earnestness  and  dignity-, 
which,  when  he  did  assume,  few  wore  with  a  nobler  grace)  — 
"no.  Count,  I  make  a  distinction  between  those  who  minister 
to  the  state  and  those  who  minister  to  me.     I  consider  your 


358  DEVEREUX. 

services  too  valuable  to  the  former  to  put  tliem  at  the  mercy 
of  the  latter.  And  bow  that  the  conversation  has  turned 
upon  business  I  wish  to  sj)eak  to  you  about  this  scheme  of 
Gortz." 

After  a  prolonged  conference  with  the  Regent  upon  mat- 
ters of  business,  in  which  his  deep  penetration  into  human 
nature  not  a  little  surprised  me,  I  went  away  thoroughly  sat- 
isfied with  my  visit.  I  should  not  have  been  so  had  I  added 
to  my  other  accomplishments  the  gift  of  prophecy.  Above 
five  days  after  this  interview,  I  thought  it  would  be  but  pru- 
dent to  pay  the  Abbe  Dubois  one  of  those  visits  of  homage 
which  it  was  already  become  policy  to  pay  him.  "If  I  go," 
thought  I,  "it  will  seem  as  if  nothing  had  happened;  if  I 
stay  away,  it  will  seem  as  if  I  attached  importance  to  a  scene 
I  should  appear  to  have  forgotten." 

It  so  happened  that  the  Abbe  had  a  very  unusual  visitor 
that  morning,  in  the  person  of  the  austere  but  admirable  Due 
de  St.  Simon.  There  was  a  singular  and  almost  invariable 
distinction  in  the  Regent's  mind  between  one  kind  of  regard 
and  another.  His  regard  for  one  order  of  persons  always 
arose  either  out  of  his  vices  or  his  indolence;  his  regard  for 
another,  out  of  his  good  qualities  and  his  strong  sense.  The 
Due  de  St.  Simon  held  the  same  place  in  the  latter  species  of 
affection  that  Dubois  did  in  the  former.  The  Due  was  just 
coming  out  of  the  Abbe's  closet  as  I  entered  the  anteroom. 
He  paused  to  speak  to  me,  while  Dubois,  who  had  followed 
the  Due  out,  stopped  for  one  moment,  and  surveyed  me  with 
a  look  like  a  thundercloud.  I  did  not  appear  to  notice  it,  but 
St.   Simon  did. 

"That  look,"  said  he,  as  Dubois,  beckoning  to  a  gentleman 
to  accompany  him  to  his  closet,  once  more  disappeared,  "  that 
look  bodes  you  no  good.  Count." 

Pride  is  an  elevation  which  is  a  spring-board  at  one  time 
and  a  stumbling-block  at  another.  It  was  with  me  more 
often  the  stumbling-block  than  the  spring-board.  "Monsei- 
gneur  le  Due, "  said  I,  haughtily  enough,  and  rather  in  too 
loud  a  tone  considering  the  chamber  was  pretty  full,  "in  no 
court  to  which  Morton  Devereux  proffers  his  services  shall  his 


DEVEREUX.  359 

fortune  depend  upon  the  looks  of  a  low-born  insolent  or  a 
profligate  priest." 

St.  Simon  smiled  sardonically.  "Monsieur  le  Comte,"  said 
he,  rather  civilly,  "  I  honour  your  sentiments,  and  I  wish  you 
success  in  the  world  —  and  a  lower  voice." 

I  was  going  to  say  something  by  way  of  retort,  for  I  was  in 
a  very  bad  humour,  but  I  checked  myself:  "I  need  not," 
thought  I,   "make  two  enemies,   if  I  can  help  it." 

"  I  shall  never, "  I  replied  gravely,  "  I  shall  never  despair, 
so  long  as  the  Due  de  St.  Simon  lives,  of  winning  by  the  same 
arts  the  favour  of  princes  and  the  esteem  of  good  men." 

The  Due  was  flattered,  and  replied  suitably,  but  he  very 
soon  afterwards  went  away.  I  was  resolved  that  I  would 
not  go  till  I  had  fairly  seen  what  sort  of  reception  the  Abbe 
would  give  me.  I  did  not  wait  long:  he  came  out  of  his 
closet,  and  standing  in  his  usual  rude  manner  with  his  back 
to  the  fireplace,  received  the  addresses  and  compliments  of  his 
visitors.  I  was  not  in  a  hurry  to  present  myself,  but  I  did 
so  at  last  with  a  familiar  yet  rather  respectful  air.  Dubois 
looked  at  me  from  head  to  foot,  and  abruptly  turning  his 
back  upon  me,  said  with  an  oath,  to  a  courtier  who  stood  next 
to  him, —  "The  plagues  of  Pharaoh  are  come  again;  only  in- 
stead of  Egyptian  frogs  in  our  chambers,  we  have  the  still 
more  troublesome  guests, — English  adventurers!" 

Somehow  or  other  my  compliments  rarely  tell;  I  am 
lavish  enough  of  them,  but  they  generally  have  the  air  of 
sarcasms ;  thank  Heaven,  however,  no  one  can  accuse  me  of 
ever  wanting  a  rude  answer  to  a  rude  speech.  "Ha!  ha! 
ha!"  said  I  now,  in  answer  to  Dubois,  with  a  courteous 
laugh,  "you  have  an  excellent  wit.  Abbe.  Apropos  of  ad- 
ventures, I  met  a  Monsieur  St.  Laurent,  Principal  of  the  In- 
stitution of  St.  Michael,  the  other  da}'.  'Count,'  said  he, 
hearing  I  was  going  to  Paris,  'you  can  do  me  an  especial 
favour!'  'What  is  it?'  said  I.  'Why,  a  cast-off  valet  of 
mine  is  living  at  Paris ;  he  would  have  gone  long  since  to  the 
galleys,  if  he  had  not  taken  sanctuary  in  the  Church :  if  ever 
jOM  meet  him,  giA'e  him  a  good  horsewhipping  on  my  account; 
his  name  is  William  Dubois.'     'Depend  upon  it,'  answered 


360  DEVEREUX. 

I  to  Monsieur  St.  Laurent,  'that  if  he  is  servant  to  any  one 
not  belonging  to  the  royal  family,  I  will  fulfil  your  errand, 
and  horsewhip  him  soundly;  if  in  the  service  of  the  royal 
family,  why,  respect  for  his  masters  must  oblige  me  to  con- 
tent myself  with  putting  all  persons  on  their  guard  against 
a  little  rascal,  who  retains,  in  all  situations,  the  manners 
of  the  apothecary's  son  and  the  roguery  of  the  director's 
valet.'" 

All  the  time  I  was  relating  this  charming  little  anecdote, 
it  would  have  been  amusing  to  the  last  degree  to  note  the 
horrified  countenances  of  the  surrounding  gentlemen.  Dubois 
was  too  confounded,  too  aghast,  to  interrupt  me,  and  I  left 
the  room  before  a  single  syllable  was  uttered.  Had  Dubois 
at  that  time  been,  what  he  was  afterwards,  cardinal  and  prime 
minister,  I  should  in  all  probability  have  had  permanent 
lodgings  in  the  Bastile  in  return  for  my  story.  Even  as  it 
was,  the  Abbe  was  not  so  grateful  as  he  ought  to  have  been 
for  my  taking  so  much  pains  to  amuse  him !  In  spite  of  my 
anger  on  leaving  the  favourite,  I  did  not  forget  my  prudence, 
and  accordingly  I  hastened  to  the  Prince.  When  the  Regent 
admitted  me,  I  flung  myself  on  my  knee,  and  told  him,  ver- 
batim, all  that  had  happened.  The  Regent,  who  seems  to 
have  had  very  little  real  liking  for  Dubois,  could  not  help 
laughing  when  I  ludicrously  described  to  him  the  universal 
consternation  my  anecdote  had  excited.^ 

"Courage,  my  dear  Count,"  said  he,  kindly,  "you  have 
nothing  to  fear ;  return  home  and  count  upon  an  embassy !  " 

I  relied  on  the  royal  word,  returned  to  my  lodgings,  and 
spent  the  evening  with  Chaulieu  and  Fontenelle.  The  next 
day  the  Due  de  St.  Simon  paid  me  a  visit.  After  a  little  pre- 
liminary conversation,  he  unburdened  the  secret  with  which 
he  was  charged.  I  was  desired  to  leave  Paris  in  forty-eight 
hours. 

"Believe  me,"  said  St.  Simon,  "that  this  message  was  not 

1  On  the  death  of  Dubois,  the  Rejrent  wrote  to  the  Count  de  Noce,  whom 
he  had  banished  for  an  indiscreet  expression  against  the  favourite,  uttered  at 
one  of  his  private  suppers :  "  With  the  beast  dies  the  venom :  I  expect  j'ou 
to-night  to  supper  at  the  Palais  Royal." 


DEVEREUX.  361 

# 
intrusted  to  me  by  the  Regent  without  great  reluctance.  He 
sends  you  many  condescending  and  kind  messages;  says  he 
shall  always  both  esteem  and  like  you,  and  hopes  to  see  you 
again,  some  time  or  other,  at  the  Palais  Eoyal.  Moreover, 
he  desires  the  message  to  be  private,  and  has  intrusted  it  to 
me  in  especial,  because  hearing  that  I  had  a  kindness  for  you, 
and  knowing  I  had  a  hatred  for  Dubois,  he  thought  I  should 
be  the  least  unwelcome  messenger  of  such  disagreeable  tid- 
ings. 'To  tell  you  the  truth,  St.  Simon,'  said  the  Regent, 
laughing,  'I  only  consent  to  have  him  banished,  from  a  firm 
conviction  that  if  I  do  not  Dubois  will  take  some  opportunity 
of  having  him  beheaded.'  " 

"Pray,"  said  I,  smiling  with  a  tolerably  good  grace,  "pray 
give  my  most  grateful  and  humble  thanks  to  his  Highness, 
for  his  very  considerate  and  kind  foresight.  I  could  not  have 
chosen  better  for  myself  than  his  Highness  has  chosen  for 
me :  my  only  regret  on  quitting  France  is  at  leaving  a  prince 
so  affable  as  Philip  and  a  courtier  so  virtuous  as  St.  Simon." 

Though  the  good  Due  went  every  year  to  the  Abbey  de  la 
Trappe  for  the  purpose  of  mortifying  his  sins  and  preserving 
his  religion  in  so  impious  an  atmosphere  as  the  Palais  Royal, 
he  was  not  above  flattery;  and  he  expressed  himself  towards 
me  with  particular  kindness  after  my  speech. 

At  court,  one  becomes  a  sort  of  human  ant-bear,  and  learns 
to  catch  one's  prey  by  one's  tongue. 

After  we  had  eased  ourselves  a  little  by  abusing  Dubois, 
the  Due  took  his  leave  in  order  to  allow  me  time  to  prepare 
for  my  "journey,"  as  he  politely  called  it.  Before  he  left, 
he,  however,  asked  me  whither  my  course  would  be  bent? 
I  told  him  that  I  should  take  my  chance  with  the  Czar  Peter, 
and  see  if  his  czarship  thought  the  same  esteem  was  due  to 
the  disgraced  courtier  as  to  the  favoured  diplomatist. 

That  night  I  received  a  letter  from  St.  Simon,  enclosing 
one  addressed  with  all  due  form  to  the  Czar.  "  You  will  con- 
sider the  enclosed,"  wrote  St.  Simon,  "a  fresh  proof  of  the 
Regent's  kindness  to  you;  it  is  a  most  flattering  testimonial 
in  your  favour,  and  cannot  fail  to  make  the  Czar  anxious  to 
secure  your  services." 


862  DEVEREUX. 

I  was  not  a  little  touched  by  a  kindness  so  unusual  in  princes 
to  their  discarded  courtiers,  and  this  entirely  reconciled  me 
to  a  change  of  scene  which,  indeed,  under  any  other  circum- 
stances, my  somewhat  morbid  love  for  action  and  variety 
would  have  induced  me  rather  to  relish  than  dislike. 

Within  thirty-six  hours  from  the  time  of  dismissal,  I  had 
turned  my  back  upon  the  French  capital. 


CHAPTER  yi. 

A     LONG     INTERVAL     OF     YEARS.  —  A     CHANGE     OF     MIND    AND 

ITS    CAUSES. 

The  last  accounts  received  of  the  Czar  reported  him  to  be 
at  Dantzic.  He  had,  however,  quitted  that  place  when  I  ar- 
rived there.  I  lost  no  time  in  following  him,  and  presented 
myself  to  his  Majesty  one  day  after  his  dinner,  when  he  was 
sitting  with  one  leg  in  the  Czarina's  lap  and  a  bottle  of  the 
best  eau  de  vie  before  him.  I  had  chosen  my  time  well;  he 
received  me  most  graciously,  read  my  letter  from  the  Regent 
—  about  which,  remembering  the  fate  of  Bellerophon,  I  had 
had  certain  apprehensions,  but  which  proved  to  be  in  the 
highest  degree  complimentary  —  and  then  declared  himself 
extremely  happy  to  see  me  again.  However  parsimonious 
Peter  generally  was  towards  foreigners,  I  never  had  ground 
fox  personal  complaint  on  that  score.  The  very  next  day  I 
was  appointed  to  a  post  of  honour  and  profit  about  the  royal 
person ;  from  this  I  was  transferred  to  a  military  station,  in 
which  I  rose  with  great  rapidity;  and  I  was  only  occasionally 
called  from  my  warlike  duties  to  be  intrusted  with  diplomatic 
missions  of  the  highest  confidence  and  importance. 

It  is  this  portion  of  my  life  —  a  portion  of  nine  years  to  the 
time  of  the  Czar's  death  —  that  I  shall,  in  this  history,  the 
most  concentrate  and  condense.    In  truth,  were  I  to  dwell  upon 


DEVEREUX.  363 

it  at  length,  I  should  make  little  more  than  a  mere  record  of 
political  events;  differing,  in  some  respects,  it  is  true,  from 
the  received  histories  of  the  time,  but  containing  nothing  to 
compensate  in  utility  for  the  want  of  interest.  That  this  was 
the  exact  age  for  adventurers,  Alberoni  and  Dubois  are  suffi- 
cient proofs.  Never  was  there  a  more  stirring,  active,  restless 
period;  never  one  in  which  the  genius  of  intrigue  was  so  per- 
vadingly  at  work.  I  was  not  less  fortunate  than  my  brethren. 
Although  scarcely  four  and  twenty  when  I  entered  the  Czar's 
service,  my  habits  of  intimacy  with  men  much  older;  my  cus- 
tomary gravity,  reserve,  and  thought;  my  freedom,  since 
Isora's  death,  from  youthful  levity  or  excess;  my  early  en- 
trance into  the  world;  and  a  countenance  prematurely  marked 
with  the  lines  of  reflection  and  sobered  by  its  hue,  —  made  me 
appear  considerably  older  than  I  was.  I  kept  my  OAvn  coun- 
sel, and  affected  to  be  so:  youth  is  a  great  enemy  to  one's 
success ;  and  more  esteem  is  often  bestowed  upon  a  wrinkled 
brow  than,  a  plodding  brain. 

All  the  private  intelligence  which  during  this  space  of  time 
I  had  received  from  England  was  far  from  voluminous.  My 
mother  still  enjoyed  the  quiet  of  her  religious  retreat.  A 
fire,  arising  from  the  negligence  of  a  servant,  had  consumed 
nearly  the  whole  of  Devereux  Court  (the  fine  old  house !  till 
that  went,  I  thought  even  England  held  one  friend).  Upon 
this  accident,  Gerald  had  gone  to  London;  and,  though  there 
was  now  no  doubt  of  his  having  been  concerned  in  the  Eebel- 
lion  of  1715,  he  had  been  favourably  received  at  court,  and 
was  already  renowned  throughout  London  for  his  pleasures, 
his  excesses,   and  his  munificent  profusion. 

Montreuil,  whose  lot  seemed  to  be  always  to  lose  by  in- 
trigue what  he  gained  by  the  real  solidity  of  his  genius,  had 
embarked  very  largely  in  the  rash  but  gigantic  schemes  of 
Gortz  and  Alberoni;  schemes  which,  had  they  succeeded, 
would  not  only  have  placed  a  new  king  upon  the  English 
throne,  but  wrought  an  utter  change  over  the  whole  face  of 
Europe.  With  Alberoni  and  with  Gortz  fell  ^Montreuil.  He 
was  banished  France  and  Spain;  the  penalty  of  death  awaited 
him  in  Britain;  and  he  was  supposed  to  have  thrown  himself 


364  DEVEREUX. 

into  some  convent  in  Italy,  where  his  name  and  his  character 
were  unknown.  In  this  brief  intelligence  was  condensed  all 
my  information  of  the  actors  in  my  first  scenes  of  life.  I 
return  to  that  scene  on  which  I  had  now  entered. 

At  the  age  of  thirty-three  I  had  acquired  a  reputation  suffi- 
cient to  content  my  ambition ;  my  fortune  was  larger  than  my 
wants ;  I  was  a  favourite  in  courts ;  I  had  been  successful  in 
camps ;  I  had  already  obtained  all  that  would  have  rewarded 
the  whole  lives  of  many  men  superior  to  myself  in  merit, 
more  ardent  than  myself  in  desires.  I  was  still  young;  my 
appearance,  though  greatly  altered,  manhood  had  rather  im- 
proved than  impaired.  I  had  not  forestalled  my  constitution 
by  excesses,  nor  worn  dry  the  sources  of  pleasure  by  too  large 
a  demand  upon  their  capacities;  why  was  it  then,  at  that 
golden  age,  in  the  very  prime  and  glory  of  manhood,  in  the 
very  zenith  and  summer  of  success,  that  a  deep,  dark,  pervad- 
ing melancholy  fell  upon  me?  a  melancholy  so  gloomy  that 
it  seemed  to  me  as  a  thick  and  impenetrable  curtain  drawn 
gradually  between  myself  and  the  blessed  light  of  human  en- 
joyment. A  torpor  crept  upon  me;  an  indolent,  heavy,  cling- 
ing languor  gathered  over  my  whole  frame,  the  physical  and 
the  mental:  I  sat  for  hours  without  book,  paper,  object, 
thought,  gazing  on  vacancy,  stirring  not,  feeling  not,  —  yes, 
feeling,  but  feeling  only  one  sensation,  a  sick,  sad,  drooping 
despondency,  a  sinking  in  of  the  heart,  a  sort  of  gnawing 
within  as  if  something  living  were  twisted  round  my  vitals, 
and,  finding  no  other  food,  preyed,  though  with  a  sickly  and 
dull  maw,  upon  them.  This  disease  came  upon  me  slowly: 
it  was  not  till  the  beginning  of  the  second  year,  from  its  ob- 
vious and  palpable  commencement,  that  it  grew  to  the  height 
that  I  have  described.  It  began  with  a  distaste  to  all  that  I 
had  been  accustomed  to  enjoy  or  to  pursue.  Music,  which  I 
had  always  passionately  loved,  though  from  some  defect  in 
the  organs  of  hearing,  I  was  incapable  of  attaining  the  small- 
est knowledge  of  the  science,  music  lost  all  its  diviner  spells, 
all  its  properties  of  creating  a  new  existence,  a  life  of  dream- 
ing and  vain  luxuries,  within  the  mind:  it  became  only  a  mo- 
notonous sound,  less  grateful  to  the  languor  of  my  faculties 


DEVEREUX.  365 

than  an  utter  and  dead  stillness.  I  had  never  been  what  is 
generally  termed  a  boon  companion;  but  I  had  had  the  social 
vanities,  if  not  the  social  tastes;  I  had  insensibly  loved  the 
board  which  echoed  with  applause  at  my  sallies,  and  the  com- 
rades who,  while  they  deprecated  my  satire,  had  been  com- 
plaisant enough  to  hail  it  as  wit.  One  of  my  weaknesses  is  a 
love  of  show,  and  I  had  gratified  a  feeling  not  the  less  cher- 
ished because  it  arose  from  a  petty  source,  in  obtaining  for 
my  equipages,  my  mansion,  my  banquets,  the  celebrity  which 
is  given  no  less  to  magnificence  than  to  fame;  now  I  grew  in- 
different alike  to  the  signs  of  pomp,  and  to  the  baubles  of 
taste;  praise  fell  upon  a  listless  ear,  and  (rare  pitch  of 
satiety!)  the  pleasures  that  are  the  offspring  of  our  foibles 
delighted  me  no  more.  I  had  early  learned  from  Bolingbroke 
a  love  for  the  converse  of  men,  eminent,  whether  for  wisdom 
or  for  wit:  the  graceful  badinage,  or  the  keen  critique;  the 
sparkling  flight  of  the  winged  words  which  circled  and  re- 
bounded from  lip  to  lip,  or  the  deep  speculation  upon  the 
mysterious  and  unravelled  wonders  of  man,  of  Nature,  and  the 
world;  the  light  maxim  upon  manners,  or  the  sage  inquiry 
into  the  mines  of  learning,  all  and  each  had  possessed  a  link 
to  bind  my  temper  and  my  tastes  to  the  graces  and  fascina- 
tion of  social  life.  Kow  a  new  spirit  entered  within  me: 
the  smile  faded  from  my  lip,  and  the  jest  departed  from  my 
tongue;  memory  seemed  no  less  treacherous  than  fancy,  and 
deserted  me  the  instant  I  attempted  to  enter  into  those  con- 
tests of  knowledge  in  which  I  had  been  not  undistinguished 
before.  I  grew  confused  and  embarrassed  in  speech;  my 
words  expressed  a  sense  utterly  different  to  that  which  I  had 
intended  to  convey;  and  at  last,  as  my  apathy  increased,  I 
sat  at  my  own  board,  silent  and  lifeless,  freezing  into  ice  the 
very  powers  and  streams  of  converse  which  I  had  once  been 
the  foremost  to  circulate  and  to  warm. 

At  the  time  I  refer  to,  I  was  Minister  at  one  of  the  small 
Continental  courts,  where  life  is  a  round  of  unmeaning  eti- 
quette and  wearisome  ceremonials,  a  daily  labour  of  trifles,  a 
ceaseless  pageantry  of  nothings.  I  had  been  sent  there  upon 
one  important  event;  the  business  resulting  from  it  had  soon 


366  DEVEREUX. 

ceased,  and  all  the  duties  that  remained  for  me  to  discharge 
were  of  a  negative  and  passive  nature.  Nothing  that  could 
arouse,  nothing  that  could  occupy  faculties  that  had  for  years 
been  so  perpetually  wound  up  to  a  restless  excitement,  was  left 
for  me  in  this  terrible  reservoir  of  ennui.  I  had  come  thither 
at  once  from  the  skirmishing  and  wild  warfare  of  a  Tartar  foe ;  a 
war  in  which,  though  the  glory  was  obscure,  the  action  was  per- 
petual and  exciting.  I  had  come  thither,  and  the  change  was 
as  if  I  had  passed  from  a  mountain  stream  to  a  stagnant  pool. 

Society  at  this  court  reminded  me  of  a  state  fiineral :  every- 
thing was  pompous  and  lugubrious,  even  to  the  drapery  — 
even  to  the  feathers  —  which,  in  other  scenes,  would  have 
been  consecrated  to  associations  of  levity  or  of  grace;  the 
hourly  pageant  swept  on  slow,  tedious,  mournful,  and  the  ob- 
ject of  the  attendants  was  only  to  entomb  the  Pleasure  which 
they  affected  to  celebrate.  What  a  change  for  the  wild,  the 
strange,  the  novel,  the  intriguing,  the  varying  life,  which, 
whether  in  courts  or  camps,  I  had  hitherto  led!  The  internal 
change  that  came  over  myself  is  scarcely  to  be  wondered  at ; 
the  winds  stood  still,  and  the  straw  they  had  blown  from 
quarter  to  quarter,  whether  in  anger  or  in  sport,  began  to 
moulder  upon  the  spot  where  they  had  left  it. 

From  this  cessation  of  the  aims,  hopes,  and  thoughts  of 
life  I  was  awakened  by  the  spreading,  as  it  were,  of  another 
disease:  the  dead,  dull,  aching  pain  at  my  heart  was  suc- 
ceeded by  one  acute  and  intense ;  the  absence  of  thought  gave 
way  to  one  thought  more  terrible,  more  dark,  more  despairing 
than  any  which  had  haunted  me  since  the  first  year  of  Isora's 
death ;  and  from  a  numbness  and  pause,  as  it  were,  of  exist- 
ence, existence  became  too  keen  and  intolerable  a  sense.  I 
will  enter  into  an  explanation. 

At  the  court  of ,  there  was  an  Italian,  not  uncelebrated 

for  his  wisdom,  nor  unbeloved  for  an  innocence  and  integrity 
of  life  rarely  indeed  to  be  met  with  among  his  countrymen. 
The  acquaintance  of  this  man,  who  was  about  fifty  years  of 
age,  and  who  was  devoted  almost  exclusively  to  the  pursuit 
of  philosophical  science,  I  had  sedulously  cultivated.  His 
conversation  pleased  me ;  his  wisdom  improved;  and  his  be- 


DEVEREUX.  367 

nevolence,  which  reminded  me  of  the  traits  of  La  Fontaine,  it 
was  so  infantine,  made  me  incline  to  love  him.  Upon  the 
growth  of  the  fearful  malady  of  mind  which  seized  nie,  I  had 
discontinued  my  visits  and  my  invitations  to  the  Italian;  and 
Bezoni  (so  was  he  called)  felt  a  little  offended  by  my  neglect. 
As  soon,  however,  as  he  discovered  my  state  of  mind,  the 
good  man's  resentment  left  him.  He  forced  himself  upon  my 
solitude,  and  would  sit  by  me  whole  evenings, —  sometimes 
Avithout  exchanging  a  word,  sometimes  with  vain  attempts  to 
interest,  to  arouse,  or  to  amuse  me. 

At  last,  one  evening  —  it  was  the  era  of  a  fearful  suffering 
to  me  —  our  conversation  turned  upon  those  subjects  which 
are  at  once  the  most  important  and  the  most  rarely  discussed. 
"We  spoke  of  religion.  AVe  first  talked  upon  the  theology  of 
revealed  religion.  As  Bezoni  warmed  into  candour,  I  per- 
ceived that  his  doctrines  differed  from  my  own,  and  that  he 
inly  disbelieved  that  divine  creed  which  Christians  profess 
to  adore.  From  a  dispute  on  the  ground  of  faith,  we  came  to 
one  upon  the  more  debatable  ground  of  reason.  We  turned 
from  the  subject  of  revealed  to  that  of  natural  religion ;  and 
we  entered  long  and  earnestly  into  that  grandest  of  all  earthly 
speculations,  —  the  metaphysical  proofs  of  the  immortality 
of  the  soul.  Again  the  sentiments  of  Bezoni  were  opposed  to 
mine.  He  was  a  believer  in  the  dark  doctrine  which  teaches 
that  man  is  dust  and  that  all  things  are  forgotten  in  the 
grave.  He  expressed  his  opinions  with  a  clearness  and  pre- 
cision the  more  impressive  because  totally  devoid  of  cavil  and 
of  rhetoric.  I  listened  in  silence,  but  with  a  deep  and  most 
chilling  dismay.  Even  now  I  think  I  see  the  man  as  he  sat 
before  me,  the  light  of  the  lamp  falling  on  his  high  forehead 
and  dark  features;  even  now  I  think  I  hear  his  calm,  low 
voice  —  the  silver  voice  of  his  country  —  stealing  to  my  heart, 
and  withering  the  only  pure  and  unsullied  hope  which  I  yet 
cherished  there. 

Bezoni  left  me,  unconscious  of  the  anguish  he  bequeathed 
me,  to  think  over  all  he  had  said.  I  did  not  sleep  nor  even 
retire  to  bed.  I  laid  my  hea,d  upon  my  hands,  and  surren- 
dered myself  to  turbulent  yet  intense  reflection.     Every  man 


368  DEVEREUX. 

who  has  lived  much  in  the  world,  and  conversed  with  its  va- 
rious tribes,  has,  I  fear,  met  with  many  who,  on  this  moment- 
ous subject,  profess  the  same  tenets  as  Bezoni.  But  he  was 
the  first  person  I  had  met  of  that  sect  who  had  evidently 
thought  long  and  deeply  upon  the  creed  he  had  embraced.  He 
was  not  a  voluptuary  nor  a  boaster  nor  a  wit.  He  had  not 
been  misled  by  the  delusions  either  of  vanity  or  of  the  senses. 
He  was  a  man  pure,  innocent,  modest,  full  of  all  tender  char- 
ities and  meek  dispositions  towards  mankind:  it  was  evi- 
dently his  interest  to  believe  in  a  future  state ;  he  could  have 
had  nothing  to  fear  from  it.  Not  a  single  passion  did  he 
cherish  which  the  laws  of  another  world  would  have  con- 
demned. Add  to  this,  what  I  have  observed  before^  that  he 
was  not  a  man  fond  of  the  display  of  intellect,  nor  one  that 
brought  to  the  discussions  of  wisdom  the  artillery  of  wit.  He 
was  grave,  humble,  and  self-diffident,  beyond  all  beings.  I 
would  have  given  a  kingdom  to  have  found  something  in  the 
advocate  by  which  I  could  have  condemned  the  cause :  I  could 
not,   and  I  was  wretched. 

I  spent  the  whole  of  the  next  week  among  my  books.  I 
ransacked  whatever  in  my  scanty  library  the  theologians  had 
written  or  the  philosophers  had  bequeathed  upon  that  mighty 
secret.  I  arranged  their  arguments  in  my  mind.  I  armed 
myself  with  their  weapons.  I  felt  my  heart  spring  joyously 
within  me  as  I  felt  the  strength  I  had  acquired,  and  I  sent  to 
the  philosopher  to  visit  me,  that  I  might  conquer  and  confute 
him.  He  came ;  but  he  spoke  with  pain  and  reluctance.  He 
saw  that  I  had  taken  the  matter  far  more  deeply  to  heart  than 
he  could  have  suj)posed  it  possible  in  a  courtier  and  a  man  of 
fortune  and  the  world.  Little  did  he  know  of  me  or  my 
secret  soul.  I  broke  down  his  reserve  at  last.  I  unrolled  my 
arguments.  I  answered  his,  and  we  spent  the  whole  night 
in  controversy.  He  left  me,  and  I  was  more  bewildered  than 
ever. 

To  speak  truth,  he  had  devoted  years  to  the  subject :  I  had 
devoted  only  a  week.  He  had  come  to  his  conclusions  step 
by  step;  he  had  reached  the  great  ultimatum  with  slowness, 
with  care,  and,  he  confessed,  with  anguish  and  with  reluc- 


DEVEREUX.  369 

tance.  What  a  match  was  I,  who  brought  a  hasty  temper, 
and  a  limited  reflection  on  that  subject  to  a  reasoner  like  this? 
His  candour  staggered  and  chilled  me  even  more  than  his 
logic.  Arguments  that  occurred  not  to  me,  upon  my  side  of 
the  question,  he  stated  at  length  and  with  force;  I  heard, 
and,  till  he  replied  to  them,  I  deemed  they  were  unanswera- 
ble :  the  reply  came,  and  I  had  no  counter-word.  A  meeting 
of  this  nature  was  often  repeated;  and  when  he  left  me,  tears 
crept  into  my  wild  eyes,  my  heart  melted  within  me,  and  I 
wept ! 

I  must  now  enter  more  precisely  than  I  have  yet  done  into 
my  state  of  mind  upon  religious  matters  at  the  time  this  dis- 
pute with  the  Italian  occurred.  To  speak  candidly,  I  had 
been  far  less  shocked  with  his  opposition  to  me  upon  matters 
of  doctrinal  faith  than  with  that  upon  matters  of  abstract 
reasoning.  Bred  a  Roman  Catholic,  though  pride,  consist- 
ency, custom,  made  me  externally  adhere  to  the  Papal  Church, 
I  inly  perceived  its  errors  and  smiled  at  its  superstitions. 
And  in  the  busy  world,  where  so  little  but  present  objects 
or  human  anticipations  of  the  future  engross  the  attention,  I 
had  never  given  the  subject  that  consideration  which  would 
have  enabled  me  (as  it  has  since)  to  separate  the  dogmas  of 
the  priest  from  the  precepts  of  the  Saviour,  and  thus  con- 
firmed my  belief  as  the  Christian  by  the  very  means  which 
would  have  loosened  it  as  the  Sectarian.  So  that  at  the  time 
Bezoni  knew  me  a  certain  indifference  to  —  perhaps  arising 
from  an  ignorance  of  —  doctrinal  points,  rendered  me  little 
hurt  by  arguments  against  opinions  which  I  embraced  indeed, 
but  with  a  lukewarm  and  imperfect  affection.  But  it  was  far 
otherwise  upon  abstract  points  of  reasoning,  far  otherwise, 
when  the  hope  of  surviving  this  frail  and  most  unhallowed 
being  was  to  be  destroyed.-  I  might  have  been  indilferent  to 
cavil  upon  what  was  the  word  of  God,  but  never  to  question 
of  the  justice  of  God  Himself.  In  the  whole  world  there  was 
not  a  more  ardent  believer  in  our  imperishable  nature,  nor 
one  more  deeply  interested  in  the  belief.  Do  not  let  it  be 
supposed  that  because  I  have  not  often  recurred  to  Isora's 
death  (or  because  I  have  continued  my  history  in  a  jesting 

24 


370  DEVEREUX. 

and  light  tone)  that  that  event  ever  passed  from  the  memory 
which  it  had  turned  to  bitterness  and  gall.  Kever  in  the 
masses  of  intrigue,  in  the  festivals  of  pleasure,  in  the  tu- 
mults of  ambition,  in  the  blaze  of  a  licentious  court,  or  by  the 
rude  tents  of  a  barbarous  host, —  never,  my  buried  love,  had  I 
forgotten  thee!  That  remembrance,  had  no  other  cause  ex- 
isted, would  have  led  me  to  God.  Every  night,  in  whatever 
toils  or  whatever  objects,  whatever  failures  or  triumphs,  the 
day  had  been  consumed;  every  night  before  I  laid  my  head 
upon  my  widowed  and  lonely  pillow, —  I  had  knelt  down  and 
lifted  ray  heart  to  Heaven,  blending  the  hopes  of  that  Heaven 
with  the  memory  and  the  vision  of  Isora.  Prayer  had  seemed 
to  me  a  commune  not  only  with  the  living  God,  but  with  the 
dead  by  whom  His  dwelling  is  surrounded.  Pleasant  and 
soft  was  it  to  turn  to  one  thought,  to  which  all  the  holiest 
portions  of  my  nature  clung  between  the  wearying  acts  of  this 
hard  and  harsh  drama  of  existence.  Even  the  bitterness  of 
Isora's  early  and  unavenged  death  passed  away  when  I 
thought  of  the  heaven  to  which  she  was  gone,  and  in  which, 
though  I  journeyed  now  through  sin  and  travail  and  recked 
little  if  the  paths  of  others  differed  from  my  own,  I  yet 
trusted  with  a  solemn  trust  that  I  should  meet  her  at  last. 
There  was  I  to  merit  her  with  a  love  as  undj'ing,  and  at 
length  as  pure,  as  her  own.  It  was  this  that  at  the  stated 
hour  in  which,  after  my  prayer  for  our  reunion,  I  surrendered 
my  spirit  to  the  bright  and  wild  visions  of  her  far,  but  not 
impassable  home, —  it  was  this  which  for  that  single  hour 
made  all  around  me  a  paradise  of  delighted  thoughts!  It  was 
not  the  little  earth,  nor  the  cold  sky,  nor  the  changing  wave, 
nor  the  perishable  turf, — no,  nor  the  dead  wall  and  the  nar- 
row chamber, —  which  were  around  me  then!  No  dreamer 
ever  was  so  far  from  the  localities  of  flesh  and  life  as  I  was 
in  that  enchanted  hour:  a  light  seemed  to  settle  upon  all 
things  around  me;  her  voice  murmured  on  my  ear,  her  kisses 
melted  on  my  brow;  I  shut  my  eyes,  and  I  fancied  that  I 
beheld  her. 

"Wherefore  was  this  comfort?    Whence  came  the  spell  which 
admitted  me  to  this  fairy  land?    What  was  the  source  of  the 


DEVEREUX.  371 

hope  and  the  rapture  and  the  delusion?  Was  it  not  the  deep 
certainty  that  Isora  yet  existed ;  that  her  spirit,  her  nature, 
her  love  were  preserved,  were  inviolate,  were  the  same? 
That  they  watched  over  me  yet,  that  she  knew  that  in  that 
hour  I  was  with  her,  that  she  felt  my  prayer,  that  even  then 
she  anticipated  the  moment  when  my  soul  should  burst  the 
human  prison-house  and  be  once  more  blended  with  her  own? 

What!  and  was  this  to  be  no  more?  Were  those  mystic 
and  sweet  revealings  to  be  mute  to  me  forever?  Were  my 
thoughts  of  Isora  to  be  henceforth  bounded  to  the  charnel- 
house  and  the  worm?  Was  she  indeed  no  viore?  No  7)iore, — 
oh,  intolerable  despair!  Why,  there  was  not  a  thing  I  had 
once  known,  not  a  dog  that  I  had  caressed,  not  a  book  that  I 
had  read,  which  I  could  know  that  I  should  see  no  more,  and, 
knowing,  not  feel  something  of  regret.  No  more!  were  we, 
indeed,  parted  forever  and  forever?  Had  she  gone  in  her 
young  years,  with  her  warm  affections,  her  new  hopes,  all 
green  and  unwithered  at  her  heart,  at  once  into  dust,  still- 
ness, ice?  And  had  I  known  her  only  for  one  year,  one  little 
year,  to  see  her  torn  from  me  by  a  violent  and  bloody  death, 
and  to  be  left  a  mourner  in  this  vast  and  eternal  charnel, 
without  a  solitary  consolation  or  a  gleam  of  hope?  Was  the 
earth  to  be  henceforth  a  mere  mass  conjured  from  the  bones 
and  fattened  by  the  clay  of  our  dead  sires?  Were  the  stars  and 
the  moon  to  be  mere  atoms  and  specks  of  a  chill  light,  no 
longer  worlds,  which  the  ardent  spirit  might  hereafter  reach 
and  be  fitted  to  enjoy?  Was  the  heaven  —  the  tender,  blue, 
loving  heaven,  in  whose  far  regions  I  had  dreamed  was  Isora's 
home,  and  had,  therefore,  grown  better  and  happier  when  I 
gazed  upon  it  —  to  be  nothing  but  cloud  and  air?  and  had  the 
love  which  had  seemed  so  immortal,  and  so  si)ringing  from  that 
which  had  not  blent  itself  with  mortality,  been  but  a  gross  lamp 
fed  only  by  the  properties  of  a  brute  nature,  and  placed  in  a  dark 
cell  of  clay,  to  glimmer,  to  burn,  and  to  expire  with  the  frail 
walls  which  it  had  illumined?  Dust,  death,  worms, — were 
these  the  heritage  of  love  and  hope,  of  thought,  of  passion,  of 
all  that  breathed  and  kindled  and  exalted  and  created Vi'ithin? 

Could  I  contemplate  this  idea;  could  I  believe  it  possible? 


372  DEVEREUX. 

/  could  not.  But  against  the  abstract,  the  logical  arguments 
for  this  idea,  had.  I  a  reply?  I  shudder  as  I  write  that  at 
that  time  I  had  not !  I  endeavoured  to  fix  my  whole  thoughts 
to  the  study  of  those  subtle  reasonings  which  I  had  hitherto 
so  imperfectly  conned :  but  my  mind  was  jarring,  irresolute, 
bewildered,  confused ;  my  stake  seemed  too  vast  to  allow  me 
coolness  for  the  game. 

Whoever  has  had  cause  for  some  refined  and  deep  study  in 
the  midst  of  the  noisy  and  loud  world  may  perhaps  readily 
comprehend  that  feeling  which  now  possessed  me ;  a  feeling 
that  it  was  utterly  impossible  to  abstract  and  concentrate 
one's  thoughts,  while  at  the  mercy  of  every  intruder,  and 
fevered  and  fretful  by  every  disturbance.  Men  early  and 
long  accustomed  to  mingle  such  reflections  with  the  avoca- 
tions of  courts  and  cities  have  grown  callous  to  these  inter- 
ruptions, and  it  has  been  in  the  very  heart  of  the  multitude 
that  the  profoundest  speculations  have  been  cherished  and 
produced;  but  I  was  not  of  this  mould.  The  world,  which 
before  had  been  distasteful,  now  grew  insufferable;  I  longed 
for  some  seclusion,  some  utter  solitude,  some  quiet  and  un- 
penetrated  nook,  that  I  might  give  my  undivided  mind  to  the 
knowledge  of  these  things,  and  build  the  tower  of  divine  rea- 
sonings by  which  I  might  ascend  to  heaven.  It  was  at  this 
time,  and  in  the  midst  of  my  fiercest  internal  conflict,  that 
the  great  Czar  died,  and  I  was  suddenly  recalled  to  Russia. 

"Xow,"  I  said,  when  I  heard  of  my  release,  "now  shall  my 
wishes  be  fulfilled !  " 

I  sent  to  Bezoni.  He  came,  but  he  refused,  as  indeed  he 
had  for  some  time  done,  to  speak  to  me  further  upon  the  ques- 
tion which  so  wildly  engrossed  me.  "I  forgive  you,"  said  I, 
when  we  parted,  "I  forgive  you  for  all  that  you  have  cost 
me :  I  feel  that  the  moment  is  now  at  hand  when  my  faith 
shall  frame  a  weapon  wherewith  to  triumph  over  yours !  " 

Father  in  Heaven !  thanks  be  to  Thee  that  my  doubts  were 
at  last  removed,  and  the  cloud  rolled  away  from  my  soul. 

Bezoni  embraced  me,  and  wept  over  me.  "All  good  men," 
said  he,  "have  a  mighty  interest  in  your  success;  for  me 
there  is  nothing  dark,  even  in  the  mute  grave,  if  it  covers  the 


DEVEREUX.  373 

aslies  of  one  who  has  loved  and  served  his  brethren,  and  done, 
with  a  wilful  heart,  no  living  creature  wrong." 

Soon  afterwards  the  Italian  lost  his  life  in  attending  the 
victims  of  a  fearful  and  contagious  disease,  whom  even  the 
regular  practitioners  of  the  healing  art  hesitated  to  visit. 

At  this  moment  I  am,  in  the  strictest  acceptation  of  the 
words,  a  believer  and  a  Christian.  I  have  neither  anxiety 
nor  doubt  upon  the  noblest  and  the  most  comforting  of  all 
creeds,  and  I  am  grateful,  among  the  other  blessings  which 
faith  has  brought  me,  —  I  am  grateful  that  it  has  brought  me 
CHARITY!  Dark  to  all  human  beings  was  Bezoni's  doc- 
trine,—  dark,  above  all,  to  those  who  have  mourned  on  earth; 
so  withering  to  all  the  hopes  which  cling  the  most  enduringly 
to  the  heart  was  his  unhappy  creed  that  he  who  knows  how 
inseparably,  though  insensibly,  our  moral  legislation  is  woven 
with  our  supposed  self-interest  will  scarcely  marvel  at,  even 
while  he  condemns,  the  unwise  and  unholy  persecution  which 
that  creed  universally  sustains !  Many  a  most  wretched  hour, 
many  a  pang  of  agony  and  despair,  did  those  doctrines  inflict 
upon  myself;  but  I  know  that  the  intention  of  Bezoni  was 
benevolence  and  that  the  practice  of  his  life  was  virtue :  and 
while  my  reason  tells  me  that  God  will  not  punish  the  re- 
luctant and  involuntary  error  of  one  to  whom  all  God's  crea- 
tures were  so  dear,  my  religion  bids  me  hope  that  I  shall  meet 
him  in  that  world  where  no  error  is,  and  where  the  Great 
Spirit  to  whom  all  human  passions  are  unknown  avenges  the 
momentary  doubt  of  His  justice  by  a  proof  of  the  infinity  of 
His  mercy. 


BOOK    VI. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE   KETREAT. 

I  ARRIVED  at  St.  Petersburg,  and  found  the  Czarina,  whose 
conjugal  perfidy  was  more  than  suspected,  tolerably  resigned 
to  the  extinction  of  that  dazzling  life  whose  incalculable  and 
god-like  utility  it  is  reserved  for  posterity  to  appreciate !  I 
have  observed,  by  the  way,  that  in  general  men  are  the  less 
mourned  by  their  families  in  proportion  as  they  are  the  more 
mourned  by  the  community.  The  great  are  seldom  amiable; 
and  those  who  are  the  least  lenient  to  our  errors  are  invariably 
our  relations! 

Many  circumstances  at  that  time  conspired  to  make  my 
request  to  quit  the  imperial  service  appear  natural  and  appro- 
priate. The  death  of  the  Czar,  joined  to  a  growing  jealousy 
and  suspicion  between  the  English  monarch  and  Eussia, 
which,  thoiigh  long  existing,  was  now  become  more  evident 
and  notorious  than  heretofore,  gave  me  full  opportunity  to 
observe  that  my  pardon  had  been  obtained  from  King  George 
three  years  since,  and  that  private  as  well  as  national  ties 
rendered  my  return  to  England  a  measure  not  only  of  expedi- 
ency but  necessity.  The  imperial  Catherine  granted  me  my 
dismissal  in  the  most  flattering  terms,  and  added  the  high 
distinction  of  the  Order  founded  in  honour  of  the  memorable 
feat  by  which  she  had  saved  her  royal  consort  and  the  Russian 
army  to  the  Order  of  St.  Andrew,  which  I  had  already 
received. 


DEVEREUX.  375 

I  transferred  my  wealth,  now  immense,  to  England,  and, 
with  the  pomp  which  became  the  rank  and  reputation  Fortune 
had  bestowed  upon  me,  I  commenced  the  long  land-journey  I 
had  chalked  out  to  myself.  Although  I  had  alleged  my  wish 
to  revisit  England  as  the  main  reason  of  my  retirement  from 
Kussia,  I  had  also  expressed  an  intention  of  visiting  Italy 
previous  to  my  return  to  England.  The  physicians,  indeed, 
had  recommended  to  me  that  delicious  climate  as  an  antidote 
to  the  ills  my  constitution  had  sustained  in  the  freezing  skies 
of  the  north  J  and  in  my  own  heart  I  had  secretly  appointed 
some  more  solitary  part  of  the  Divine  Land  for  the  scene  of 
my  purposed  hermitage  and  seclusion.  It  is  indeed  astonish- 
ing how  those  who  have  lived  much  in  cold  climates  yearn  for 
lands  of  mellow  light  and  summer  luxuriance ;  and  I  felt  for 
a  southern  sky  the  same  resistless  longing  which  sailors,  in 
the  midst  of  the  vast  ocean,  have  felt  for  the  green  fields  and 
various  landscape  of  the  shore. 

I  traversed,  then,  the  immense  tracts  of  Russia,  passed 
through  Hungary,  entered  Turkey,  which  I  had  wished  to 
visit,  where  I  remained  a  short  time;  and,  crossing  the  Adri- 
atic, hailed,  for  the  first  time,  the  Ausonian  shore.  It  was 
the  month  of  May  —  that  month,  of  whose  lustrous  beauty 
none  in  a  northern  clime  can  dream  —  that  I  entered  Italy. 
It  may  serve  as  an  instance  of  the  power  with  which  a  thought 
that,  however  important,  is  generally  deemed  of  too  abstract 
and  metaphysical  a  nature  deeply  to  engross  the  mind,  pos- 
sessed me  then,  that  I  —  no  cold  nor  unenthusiastic  votary  of 
the  classic  Muse  —  made  no  pilgrimage  to  city  or  ruin,  but, 
after  a  brief  sojourn  at  Ravenna,  where  I  dismissed  all  my 
train,  set  out  alone  to  find  the  solitary  cell  for  which  I  now 
sickened  with  a  hermit's  love. 

It  was  at  a  small  village  at  the  foot  of  the  Apennines  that 
I  found  the  object  of  my  search.  Strangely  enough,  there 
blended  with  my  philosophical  ardour  a  deep  mixture  of  my 
old  romance.  Nature,  to  whose  voice  the  dweller  in  cities 
and  struggler  with  mankind  had  been  so  long  obtuse,  now 
pleaded  audibly  at  my  heart,  and  called  me  to  her  embraces, 
as  a  mother  calls  unto  her  wearied  child.     My  eye,  as  with  a 


376  DEVEREUX. 

new  vision,  became  open  to  the  mute  yet  eloquent  loveliness 
of  this  most  fairy  earth;  and  hill  and  valley,  the  mirror  of 
silent  waters,  the  sunny  stillness  of  woods,  and  the  old 
haunts  of  satyr  and  nymph,  revived  in  me  the  fountains  of 
past  poetry,  and  became  the  receptacles  of  a  thousand  spells, 
mightier  than  the  charms  of  any  enchanter  save  Love,  which 
was  departed, —  Youth,  which  was  nearly  gone, — and  Nature, 
which  (more  vividly  than  ever)  existed  for  me  still. 

I  chose,  then,  my  retreat.  As  I  was  fastidious  in  its  choice, 
I  cannot  refrain  from  the  luxury  of  describing  it.  Ah,  little 
did  I  dream  that  I  had  come  thither,  not  only  to  find  a  divine 
comfort  but  the  sources  of  a  human  and  most  passionate  woe ! 
Mightiest  of  the  Roman  bards !  in  whom  tenderness  and  rea- 
son were  so  entwined,  and  who  didst  sanctify  even  thine  un- 
holy errors  with  so  beautiful  and  rare  a  genius!  what  an 
invariable  truth  one  line  of  thine  has  expressed:  "Even  in 
the  fairest  fountain  of  delight  there  is  a  secret  and  evil  spring 
eternally  bubbling  up  and  scattering  its  bitter  waters  over  the 
very  flowers  which  surround  its  margin !  " 

In  the  midst  of  a  lovely  and  tranquil  vale  was  a  small  cot- 
tage; that  was  my  home.  The  good  people  there  performed 
for  me  all  the  hospitable  offices  I  required.  At  a  neighbour- 
ing monastery  I  had  taken  the  precaution  to  make  myself 
known  to  the  superior.  Not  all  Italians  —  no,  nor  all  monks 
—  belong  to  either  of  the  two  great  tribes  into  which  they  are 
generally  divided, — knaves  or  fools.  The  Abbot  Anselmo 
was  a  man  of  rather  a  liberal  and  enlarged  mind;  he  not  only 
kept  my  secret,  which  was  necessary  to  my  peace,  but  he  took 
my  part,  which  was  perhaps  necessary  to  my  safety.  A  phi- 
losopher, who  desires  only  to  convince  himself,  and  upon  one 
subject,  does  not  require  many  books.  Truth  lies  in  a  small 
compass ;  and  for  my  part,  in  considering  any  speculative  sub- 
ject, I  would  sooner  have  with  me  one  book  of  Euclid  as  a 
model  than  all  the  library  of  the  Vatican  as  authorities.  But 
then  I  am  not  fond  of  drawing  upon  any  resources  but  those 
of  reason  for  reasonings:  wiser  men  than  I  am  are  not  so 
strict.  The  few  books  that  I  did  require  were,  however,  of  a 
nature  very  illicit  in  Italy;  the  good  Father  passed  them  to 


DEVERF.UX.  377 

me  from  Ravenna,  under  his  own  protection.  "I  was  a  lioly 
man,"  he  said,  "who  wished  to  render  the  Catholic  Church  a 
great  service,  by  writing  a  vast  book  against  certain  atrocious 
opinions ;  and  the  works  I  read  were,  for  the  most  part,  works 
that  I  Avas  about  to  confute."  This  report  gained  me  protec- 
tion and  respect;  and,  after  I  had  ordered  my  agent  at  Ra- 
venna to  forward  to  the  excellent  Abbot  a  piece  of  plate,  and  a 
huge  cargo  of  a  rare  Hungary  wine,  it  was  not  the  Abbot's  fault 
if  I  was  not  the  most  popular  person  in  the  neighbourhood. 

But  to  my  description :  my  home  was  a  cottage ;  the  valley 
in  which  it  lay  was  divided  by  a  mountain  stream,  which 
came  from  the  forest  Apennine,  a  sparkling  and  wild  stranger, 
and  softened  into  quiet  and  calm  as  it  proceeded  through  its 
green  margin  in  the  vale.  And  that  margin,  how  dazzlingly 
green  it  was !  At  the  distance  of  about  a  mile  from  my  hut, 
the  stream  was  broken  into  a  slight  waterfall,  whose  sound 
was  heard  distinct  and  deep  in  that  still  place;  and  often  I 
paused,  from  my  midnight  thoughts,  to  listen  to  its  enchanted 
and  wild  melody.  The  fall  was  unseen  by  the  ordinary  wan- 
derer, for,  there,  the  stream  passed  through  a  thick  copse ;  and 
even  when  you  pierced  the  grove,  and  gained  the  water-side, 
dark  trees  hung  over  the  turbulent  wave,  and  the  silver  spray 
was  thrown  upward  through  the  leaves,  and  fell  in  diamonds 
upon  the  deep  green  sod. 

This  was  a  most  favoured  haunt  with  me :  the  sun  glancing 
through  the  idle  leaves;  the  music  of  the  water;  the  solemn 
absence  of  all  other  sounds,  except  the  songs  of  birds,  to 
which  the  ear  grew  accustomed,  and,  at  last,  in  the  abstrac- 
tion of  thought,  scarcely  distinguished  from  the  silence ;  the 
fragrant  herbs;  and  the  unnumbered  and  nameless  flowers 
which  formed  my  couch, —  were  all  calculated  to  make  me 
pursue  uninterruptedly  the  thread  of  contemplation  which  I 
had,  in  the  less  voluptuous  and  harsher  solitude  of  the  closet, 
first  woven  from  the  web  of  austerest  thought.  I  say  pursue, 
for  it  was  too  luxurious  and  sensual  a  retirement  for  the  con- 
ception of  a  rigid  and  severe  train  of  reflection ;  at  least  it 
would  have  been  so  to  me.  But  when  the  thought  is  once 
born,  such  scenes  seem  to  me  the  most  fit  to  cradle  and  to  rear 


378  DEVEREUX. 

it.  The  torpor  of  the  physical  appears  to  leave  to  the  mental 
frame  a  full  scope  and  power;  the  absence  of  human  cares, 
sounds,  and  intrusions,  becomes  the  best  nurse  to  contempla- 
tion; and  even  that  delicious  and  vague  sense  of  enjoyment 
which  would  seem,  at  first,  more  genial  to  the  fancy  than  the 
mind,  preserves  the  thought  undisturbed  because  contented; 
so  that  all  but  the  scheming  mind  becomes  lapped  in  sleep, 
and  the  mind  itself  lives  distinct  and  active  as  a  dream, —  a 
dream,  not  vague  nor  confused  nor  unsatisfying,  but  endowed 
with  more  than  the  clearness,  the  precision,  the  vigour,  of 
waking  life. 

A  little  way  from  this  waterfall  was  a  fountain,  a  remnant 
of  a  classic  and  golden  age.  Never  did  Naiad  gaze  on  a  more 
glassy  mirror,  or  dwell  in  a  more  divine  retreat.  Through  a 
crevice  in  an  overhanging  mound  of  the  emerald  earth,  the 
father  stream  of  the  fountain  crept  out,  born,  like  Love, 
among  flowers,  and  in  the  most  sunny  smiles;  it  then  fell, 
broadening  and  glowing,  into  a  marble  basin,  at  whose  bot- 
tom, in  the  shining  noon,  you  might  see  a  soil  which  mocked 
the  very  hues  of  gold,  and  the  water  insects,  in  their  quaint 
shapes  and  unknown  sports,  grouping  or  gliding  in  the  mid- 
most wave.  A  small  temple  of  the  lightest  architecture  stood 
before  the  fountain,  and  in  a  niche  therein  a  mutilated  statue, 
—  possibly  of  the  Spirit  of  the  place.  By  this  fountain  my 
evening  walk  would  linger  till  the  short  twilight  melted  away 
and  the  silver  wave  trembled  in  the  light  of  the  western  star. 
Oh,  then  what  feelings  gathered  over  me  as  I  turned  slowly 
homeward!  the  air  still,  breathless,  shining;  the  stars  gleam- 
ing over  the  woods  of  the  far  Apennine;  the  hills  growing 
huger  in  the  shade;  the  small  insects  humming  on  the  wing; 
and,  ever  and  anon,  the  swift  bat,  wheeling  round  and  amidst 
them;  the  music  of  the  waterfall  deepening  on  the  ear;  and 
the  light  and  hour  lending  even  a  mysterious  charm  to  the 
cry  of  the  weird  owl,  flitting  after  its  prey,  —  all  this  had  a 
harmony  in  my  thoughts  and  a  food  for  the  meditations  in 
which  my  days  and  nights  were  consumed.  The  World 
moulders  away  the  fabric  of  our  early  nature,  and  Solitude 
rebuilds  it  on  a  firmer  base. 


DEVEREUX.  379 


CHAPTER   II. 

THE    VICTORY. 

0  EARTH !  Eeservoir  of  life,  over  whose  deep  bosom  brood 
the  wings  of  the  Universal  Spirit,  shaking  upon  thee  a  bless- 
ing and  a  power,  —  a  blessing  and  a  power  to  produce  and  re- 
produce the  living  from  the  dead,  so  that  our  flesh  is  woven 
from  the  same  atoms  which  were  once  the  atoms  of  our  sires, 
and  the  inexhaustible  nutriment  of  Existence  is  Decay!  0 
eldest  and  most  solemn  Earth,  blending  even  thy  loveliness 
and  joy  with  a  terror  and  an  awe!  thy  sunshine  is  girt  with 
clouds  and  circled  with  storm  and  tempest;  thy  day  cometh 
from  the  womb  of  darkness,  and  returneth  unto  darkness,  as 
man  returns  unto  thy  bosom.  The  green  herb  that  laughs  in 
the  valley,  the  water  that  sings  merrily  along  the  wood;  the 
many-winged  and  all-searching  air,  which  garners  life  as  a 
harvest  and  scatters  it  as  a  seed, —  all  are  pregnant  with  cor- 
ruption and  carry  the  cradled  death  within  them,  as  an  oak 
banqueteth  the  destroying  worm.  But  who  that  looks  upon 
thee,  and  loves  thee,  and  inhales  thy  blessings  will  ever 
mingle  too  deep  a  moral  with  his  joy?  Let  us  not  ask  whence 
come  the  garlands  that  we  wreathe  around  our  altars  or  shower 
upon  our  feasts:  will  they  not  bloom  as  brightly,  and  breathe 
with  as  rich  a  fragrance,  whether  they  be  plucked  from  the 
garden  or  the  grave?  0  Earth,  my  INIother  Earth!  dark  Sep- 
ulchre that  closes  upon  all  which  the  Elesh  bears,  but  Vesti- 
bule of  the  vast  regions  which  the  Soul  shall  pass,  how  leaped 
my  heart  within  me  when  I  first  fathomed  thy  real  spell ! 

Yes !  never  shall  I  forget  the  rapture  with  which  I  hailed 
the  light  that  dawned  upon  me  at  last!  Never  shall  I  for- 
get the  suffocating,  the  full,  the  ecstatic  joy  with  which  I  saw 
the  mightiest  of  all  human  hopes  accomplished;  and  felt,  as 
if  an  angel  spoke,  that  there  is  a  life  beyond  the  grave !     Tell 


380  DEVEREUX. 

me  not  of  the  pride  of  ambition;  tell  me  not  of  the  triumphs 
of  science :  never  had  ambition  so  lofty  an  end  as  the  search 
after  immortality !  never  had  science  so  sublime  a  triumph  as 
the  conviction  that  immortality  will  be  gained!  I  had  been 
at  my  task  the  whole  night, —  pale  alchymist,  seeking  from 
meaner  truths  to  extract  the  greatest  of  all !  At  the  first  hour 
of  day,  lo !  the  gold  was  there :  the  labour  for  which  I  would 
have  relinquished  life  was  accomplished;  the  dove  descended 
upon  the  waters  of  my  soul.  I  fled  from  the  house.  I  was 
possessed  as  with  a  spirit.  I  ascended  a  hill,  which  looked 
for  leagues  over  the  sleeping  valley.  A  gray  mist  hung 
around  me  like  a  veil;  I  paused,  and  the  great  sun  broke 
slowly  forth ;  I  gazed  upon  its  majesty,  and  my  heart  swelled. 
"So  rises  the  soul,"  I  said,  "from  the  vapours  of  this  dull 
being;  but  the  soul  waneth  not,  neither  setteth  it,  nor  know- 
eth  it  any  night,  save  that  from  which  it  dawneth ! "  The 
mists  rolled  gradually  away,  the  sunshine  deepened,  and  the 
face  of  Nature  lay  in  smiles,  yet  silently,  before  me.  It  lay 
before  me,  a  scene  that  I  had  often  witnessed  and  hailed  and 
worshipped :  but  it  was  not  the  same  ;  a  glory  had  passed  over 
it ;  it  was  steeped  in  a  beauty  and  a  holiness,  in  which  neither 
youth  nor  poetry  nor  even  love  had  ever  robed  it  before !  The 
change  which  the  earth  had  undergone  was  like  that  of  some 
being  we  have  loved,  when  death  is  passed,  and  from  a  mortal 
it  becomes  an  angel ! 

I  uttered  a  cry  of  joy,  and  was  then  as  silent  as  all  around 
me.  I  felt  as  if  henceforth  there  was  a  new  compact  between 
Nature  and  myself.  I  felt  as  if  every  tree  and  blade  of  grass 
were  henceforth  to  be  eloquent  with  a  voice  and  instinct  with 
a  spell.  I  felt  as  if  a  religion  had  entered  into  the  earth,  and 
made  oracles  of  all  that  the  earth  bears;  the  old  fables  of 
Dodona  were  to  become  realized,  and  the  very  leaves  to  be 
hallowed  by  a  sanctity  and  to  murmur  with  a  truth.  I  was 
no  longer  only  a  part  of  that  which  withers  and  decays;  I 
was  no  longer  a  machine  of  clay,  moved  by  a  spring,  and  to 
be  trodden  into  the  mire  which  I  had  trod;  I  was  no  longer 
tied  to  humanity  by  links  which  could  never  be  broken,  and 
which,  if  broken,  would  avail  me  not.     I  was  become,  as  if 


DEVEREUX.  881 

by  a  miracle,  a  part  of  a  vast  though  unseen  spirit.  It  was 
not  to  the  matter,  but  to  the  essences,  of  things  that  I  bore 
kindred  and  alliance;  the  stars  and  the  heavens  resumed  over 
me  their  ancient  influence ;  and,  as  I  looked  along  the  far  hills 
and  the  silent  landscape,  a  voice  seemed  to  swell  from  the 
stillness,  and  to  say,  "  I  am  the  life  of  these  things,  a  spirit 
distinct  from  the  things  themselves.  It  is  to  me  that  you  be- 
long forever  and  forever:  separate,  but  equally  indissolu- 
ble; apart,  but  equally  eternal!  " 

I  spent  the  day  upon  the  hills.  It  was  evening  when  I  re- 
turned. I  lingered  by  the  old  fountain,  and  saw  the  stars 
rise,  and  tremble,  one  by  one,  upon  the  wave.  The  hour  was 
that  which  Isora  had  loved  the  best,  and  that  which  the  love 
of  her  had  consecrated  the  most  to  me.  And  never,  oh,  never, 
did  it  sink  into  m}-  heart  with  a  deeper  sweetness,  or  a  more 
soothing  balm.  I  had  once  more  knit  my  soul  to  Isora's :  I 
could  once  more  look  from  the  toiling  and  the  dim  earth,  and 
forget  that  Isora  had  left  me,  in  dreaming  of  our  reunion. 
Blame  me  not,  you  who  indulge  in  a  religious  hope  more  se- 
vere and  more  sublime;  you  who  miss  no  footsteps  from  the 
earth,  nor  pine  for  a  voice  that  your  human  wanderings  can 
hear  no  more,  —  blame  me  not,  you  whose  pulses  beat  not  for 
the  wild  love  of  the  created,  but  Avhose  spirit  languishes  only 
for  a  nearer  commune  with  the  Creator, —  blame  me  not  too 
harshly  for  my  mortal  wishes,  nor  think  that  my  faith  was 
the  less  sincere  because  it  was  tinted  in  the  most  unchanging 
dyes  of  the  human  heart,  and  indissolubly  woven  with  the 
memory  of  the  dead!  Often  from  our  weaknesses  our  strong- 
est principles  of  conduct  are  born ;  and  from  the  acorn  which 
a  breeze  has  wafted  springs  the  oak  which  defies  the  storm. 

The  first  intoxication  and  rapture  consequent  upon  the  re- 
ward of  my  labour  passed  away;  but,  unlike  other  excite- 
ment, it  was  followed  not  by  languor  or  a  sated  and  torpid 
calm:  a  soothing  and  delicious  sensation  possessed  me;  my 
turbulent  senses  slept ;  and  Memory,  recalling  the  world,  re- 
joiced at  the  retreat  which  Hope  had  acquired. 

I  now  surrendered  myself  to  a  nobler  philosophy  than  in 
crowds  and  cities  I  had  hitherto  known.     I  no  longer  satir- 


382  DEVEREUX. 

ized;  I  inquired:  I  no  longer  derided;  I  examined.  I  looked 
from  the  natural  proofs  of  immortality  to  the  written  promise 
of  our  Father;  I  sought  not  to  baifle  men,  but  to  worship 
Truth;  I  applied  myself  more  to  the  knowledge  of  good  and 
evil;  I  bowed  my  soul  before  the  loveliness  of  Virtue:  and 
though  scenes  of  wrath  and  passion  yet  lowered  in  the  future, 
and  I  was  again  speedily  called  forth  to  act,  to  madden,  to 
contend,  perchance  to  sin,  the  Image  is  still  unbroken,  and 
the  Votary  has  still  an  offering  for  its  Altar ! 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE   HERMIT    OF    THE   WELL. 

The  thorough  and  deep  investigation  of  those  principles 
from  which  we  learn  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  and  the  na- 
ture of  its  proper  ends,  leads  the  mind  through  such  a  course 
of  reflection  and  of  study;  it  is  attended  with  so  many  exalt- 
ing, purifying,  and,  if  I  may  so  say,  etherealizing  thoughts, 
—  that  I  do  believe  no  man  has  ever  pursued  it,  and  not  gone 
back  to  the  world  a  better  and  a  nobler  man  than  he  was  be- 
fore. Nay,  so  deeply  must  these  elevating  and  refining  stud- 
ies be  conned,  so  largely  and  sensibly  must  they  enter  the 
intellectual  system,  that  I  firmly  think  that  even  a  sensualist 
who  has  only  considered  the  subject  with  a  view  to  convince 
himself  that  he  is  clay,  and  has  therefore  an  excuse  to  the 
curious  conscience  for  his  grosser  desires;  nay,  should  he 
come  to  his  wished -for  yet  desolate  conclusion,  from  which 
the  abhorrent  nature  shrinks  and  recoils,  I  do  nevertheless 
firmly  think,  should  the  study  have  been  long  and  deep,  that 
he  would  wonder  to  find  his  desires  had  lost  their  poignancy 
and  his  objects  their  charm.  He  would  descend  from  the  Alp 
he  had  climbed  to  the  low  level  on  which  he  formerly  deemed 
it  a  bliss  to  dwell,  with  the  feeling  of  one  who,  having  long 


DEVEREUX.  383 

drawn  in  high  places  an  empyreal  air,  has  become  unable  to 
inhale  the  smoke  and  the  thick  vapour  he  inhaled  of  yore. 
His  soul  once  aroused  would  stir  within  him,  though  he  felt 
it  not,  and  though  he  grew  not  a  believer,  he  would  cease  to 
be  only  the  voluptuary. 

I  meant  at  one  time  to  have  here  stated  the  arguments 
which  had  perplexed  me  on  one  side,  and  those  which  after- 
wards convinced  me  on  the  other.  I  do  not  do  so  for  many 
reasons,  one  of  which  will  suffice;  namely,  the  evident  and 
palpable  circumstance  that  a  dissertation  of  that  nature  would, 
in  a  biography  like  the  present,  be  utterly  out  of  place  and 
season.  Perhaps,  however,  at  a  later  period  of  life,  I  may 
collect  my  own  opinions  on  the  subject  into  a  separate  work, 
and  bequeath  that  work  to  future  generations,  upon  the  same 
conditions  as  the  present  memoir. 

One  day  I  was  favoured  by  a  visit  from  one  of  the  monks 
at  the  neighbouring  abbey.  After  some  general  conversation 
he  asked  me  if  I  had  yet  encountered  the  Hermit  of  the  Well? 

"  No, "  said  I,  and  I  was  going  to  add,  that  I  had  not  even 
heard  of  him,  "but  I  now  remember  that  the  good  people  of 
the  house  have  more  than  once  spoken  to  me  of  him  as  a  rigid 
and  self -mortifying  recluse." 

"Yes,"  said  the  holy  friar;  "Heaven  forbid  that  I  should 
say  aught  against  the  practice  of  the  saints  and  pious  men  to 
deny  unto  themselves  the  lusts  of  the  flesh,  but  such  penances 
may  be  carried  too  far.  However,  it  is  an  excellent  custom, 
and  the  Hermit  of  the  Well  is  an  excellent  creature.  Santa 
Maria!  what  delicious  stuff  is  that  Hungary  wine  your 
scholarship  was  pleased  to  bestow  upon  our  father  Abbot. 
He  suffered  me  to  taste  it  the  eve  before  last.  I  had  been 
suffering  with  a  pain  in  the  reins,  and  the  wine  acted  power- 
fully upon  me  as  an  efficacious  and  inestimable  medicine.  Do 
you  find,  my  Son,  that  it  bore  the  journey  to  your  lodging 
here  as  well  as  to  the  convent  cellars?" 

"  Why,  really,  my  Father,  I  have  none  of  it  here ;  but  the 
people  of  the  house  have  a  few  flasks  of  a  better  wine  than 
ordinary,  if  you  will  deign  to  taste  it  in  lieu  of  the  Hungary 
wine." 


384  DEVEREUX. 

"Oil  —  oil!"  said  the  monk,  groaning,  "my  reins  trouble 
me  mucli :  perliaps  tlie  "wine  may  comfort  me !  "  and  tlie  wine 
was  brought. 

"  It  is  not  of  so  rare  a  flavour  as  that  which  you  sent  to  our 
reverend  father,"  said  the  monk,  wiping  his  mouth  with  his 
long  sleeve.  "Hungary  must  be  a  charming  place ;  is  it  far 
from  hence?  It  joins  the  heretical, —  I  pray  your  pardon, — 
it  joins  the  continent  of  England,  I  believe?  " 

"Xot  exactly,  Father;  but  whatever  its  topography,  it  is  a 
rare  country  —  for  those  who  like  it!  But  tell  me  of  this 
Hermit  of  the  "Well.  How  long  has  he  lived  here?  and  how 
came  he  by  his  appellation?  Of  what  country  is  he?  and  of 
what  birth?" 

"You  ask  me  too  many  questions  at  once,  my  Son.  The 
country  of  the  holy  man  is  a  mystery  to  us  all.  He  speaks 
the  Tuscan  dialect  well,  but  with  a  foreign  accent.  Never- 
theless, though  the  wine  is  not  of  Hungary,  it  has  a  pleasant 
flavour.  I  wonder  how  the  rogues  kept  it  so  snugly  from  the 
knowledge  and  comfort  of  their  pious  brethren  of  the 
monastery ! " 

"And  how  long  has  the  Hermit  lived  in  your  vicinity?  " 

"Nearly  eight  years,  my  Son.  It  was  one  winter's  evening 
that  he  came  to  our  convent  in  the  dress  of  a  worldly  trav- 
eller, to  seek  our  hospitality,  and  a  shelter  for  the  night, 
which  was  inclement  and  stormy.  He  stayed  with  us  a  few 
days,  and  held  some  conversation  with  our  father  Abbot;  and 
one  morning,  after  roaming  in  the  neighbourhood  to  look  at 
the  old  stones  and  ruins,  which  is  the  custom  of  travellers, 
he  returned,  put  into  our  box  some  alms,  and  two  days  after- 
wards he  appeared  in  the  place  he  now  inhabits  and  in  the 
dress  he  assumes." 

"  And  of  what  nature,  my  Father,  is  the  place,  and  of  what 
fashion  the  dress?" 

"  Holy  Saint  Francis ! "  exclaimed  the  Father,  with  a  sur- 
prise so  great  that  I  thought  at  first  it  related  to  the  wine, 
"Holy  Saint  Francis!  have  you  not  seen  the  well  yet?" 

"  No,  Father,  unless  you  speak  of  the  fountain  about  a  mile 
and  a  quarter  distant." 


DEVEREUX.  385 

"Tush  —  tush!"  said  the  good  man,  "what  ignoramuses 
you  travellers  are!  You  affect  to  know  what  kind  of  slippers 
Prester  John  wears  and  to  have  been  admitted  to  the  bed- 
chamber of  the  Pagoda  of  China;  and  yet,  when  one  comes 
to  sound  you,  you  are  as  ignorant  of  everything  a  man  of  real 
learning  knows  as  an  Englishman  is  of  his  missal.  Why,  I 
thought  that  every  fool  in  every  country  had  heard  of  the 
Holy  Well  of  St.  Francis,  situated  exactly  two  miles  from 
our  famous  convent,  and  that  every  fool  in  the  neighbourhood 
had  seen  it." 

"  What  the  fools,  my  Father,  whether  in  this  neighbourhood 
or  any  other,  may  have  heard  or  seen,  I,  who  profess  not  os- 
tensibly to  belong  to  so  goodly  an  order,  cannot  pretend  to 
know ;  but  be  assured  that  the  Holy  Well  of  St.  Francis  is  as 
unfamiliar  to  me  as  the  Pagoda  of  China  —  Heaven  bless  him 
—  is  to  you." 

Upon  this  the  learned  monk,  after  expressing  due  astonish- 
ment, offered  to  show  it  to  me ;  and  as  I  thought  I  might  by 
acquiescence  get  rid  of  him  the  sooner,  and  as,  moreover,  I 
wished  to  see  the  Abbot,  to  whom  some  books  for  me  had  been 
lately  sent,  I  agreed  to  the  offer. 

The  well,  said  the  monk,  lay  not  above  a  mile  out  of  the 
customary  Avay  to  the  monastery ;  and  after  we  had  finished 
the  flask  of  wine,  we  sallied  out  on  our  excursion, — the  monk 
upon  a  stately  and  strong  ass,  myself  on  foot. 

The  Abbot,  on  granting  me  his  friendship  and  protection, 
had  observed  that  I  was  not  the  only  stranger  and  recluse  on 
whom  his  favour  was  bestowed.  Ho  had  then  mentioned  the 
Hermit  of  the  Well,  as  an  eccentric  and  strange  being,  who 
lived  an  existence  of  rigid  penance,  harmless  to  others,  pain- 
ful only  to  himself.  This  story  had  been  confirmed  in  the 
few  conversations  I  had  ever  interchanged  with  my  host  and 
hostess,  who  seemed  to  take  a  peculiar  pleasure  in  talking  of 
the  Solitary ;  and  from  them  I  had  heard  also  many  anecdotes 
of  his  charity  towards  the  poor  and  his  attention  to  the  sick. 
All  these  circumstances  came  into  my  mind  as  the  good  monk 
indulged  his  loquacity  upon  the  subject,  and  my  curiosity  be- 
came at  last  somewhat  excited  respecting  my  fellow  recluse, 

25 


386  DEVEREUX. 

I  now  learned  from  the  monk  that  the  post  of  Hermit  of 
the  Well  was  an  office  of  which  the  present  anchorite  was  by- 
no  means  the  first  tenant.  The  well  was  one  of  those  springs, 
frequent  in  Catholic  countries,  to  which  a  legend  and  a  sanc- 
tity are  attached;  and  twice  a  year  —  once  in  the  spring,  once 
in  the  autumn  —  the  neighbouring  peasants  flocked  together, 
on  a  stated  day,  to  drink,  and  lose  their  diseases.  As  the 
spring  most  probably  did  possess  some  medicinal  qualities,  a 
few  extraordinary  cures  had  occurred,  especially  among  those 
pious  persons  who  took  not  biennial,  but  constant  draughts ; 
and  to  doubt  its  holiness  was  downright  heresy. 

Now,  hard  by  this  well  was  a  cavern,  which,  whether  first 
formed  by  nature  or  art,  was  now,  upon  the  whole,  constructed 
into  a  very  commodious  abode;  and  here,  for  years  beyond 
the  memory  of  man,  some  solitary  person  had  fixed  his  abode 
to  dispense  and  to  bless  the  water,  to  be  exceedingly  well  fed 
by  the  surrounding  peasants,  to  wear  a  long  gown  of  serge  or 
sackcloth,  and  to  be  called  the  Hermit  of  the  Well.  So  fast 
as  each  succeeding  anchorite  died  there  were  enough  candi- 
dates eager  to  supply  his  place;  for  it  was  no  bad  metier  to 
some  penniless  imposter  to  become  the  quack  and  patentee  of 
a  holy  specific.  The  choice  of  these  candidates  always  rested 
with  the  superior  of  the  neighbouring  monastery;  and  it  is 
not  impossible  that  he  made  an  indifferently  good  percentage 
upon  the  annual  advantages  of  his  protection  and  choice. 

At  the  time  the  traveller  appeared,  the  former  hermit  had 
just  departed  this  life,  and  it  was,  therefore,  to  the  vacancy 
thus  occasioned  that  he  had  procured  himself  to  be  elected. 
The  incumbent  appeared  quite  of  a  different  mould  from  the 
former  occupants  of  the  hermitage.  He  accepted,  it  is  true, 
the  gifts  laid  at  regular  periods  upon  a  huge  stone  between 
the  hermitage  and  the  well,  but  he  distributed  among  the 
donors  alms  far  more  profitable  than  their  gifts.  He  entered 
no  village,  borne  upon  an  ass  laden  with  tAvin  sacks,  for  the 
purpose  of  sanctimoniously  robbing  the  inhabitants ;  no  pro- 
fane songs  were  ever  heard  resounding  from  his  dwelling  by 
the  peasant  incautiously  lingering  at  a  late  hour  too  near  its 
vicinity;  my  guide,  the  monk,  complained  bitterly  of  his  un- 


DEVEREUX.  387 

sociaLility,  and  no  scandalous  legend  of  nymph-like  comfort- 
ers and  damsel  visitants  haunting  the  sacred  dwelling  escaped 
from  the  garrulous  friar's  well-loaded  budget. 

"Does  he  study  much?"  said  I,  with  the  interest  of  a 
student. 

**  I  fear  me  not, "  quoth  the  monk.  "  I  have  had  occasion 
often  to  enter  his  abode,  and  I  have  examined  all  things  with 
a  close  eye, — for,  praised  be  the  Lord,  I  have  faculties  more 
than  ordinarily  clear  and  observant,  —  but  I  have  seen  no 
books  thereii},  excepting  a  missal,  and  a  Latin  or  Greek  Tes- 
tament, I  know  not  well  which;  nay,  so  incurious  or  un- 
learned is  the  holy  man  that  he  rejected  even  a  loan  of  the 
*  Life  of  Saint  Francis, '  notwithstanding  it  has  many  and  rare 
pictures,  to  say  nothing  of  its  most  interesting  and  amazing 
tales." 

More  might  the  monk  have  said,  had  we  not  now  suddenly 
entered  a  thick  and  sombre  wood.  A  path  cut  through  it  was 
narrow,  and  only  capable  of  admitting  a  traveller  on  foot  or 
horseback;  and  the  boughs  overhead  were  so  darkly  interlaced 
that  the  light  scarcely,  and  only  in  broken  and  erratic  glim- 
merings, pierced  the  canopy. 

"It  is  the  wood,"  said  the  monk,  crossing  himself,  "  wherein 
the  wonderful  adventure  happened  to  Saint  Francis,  which  I 
will  one  day  narrate  at  length  to  you." 

"And  we  are  near  the  well,  I  suppose?  "  said  I. 

"  It  is  close  at  hand, "  answered  the  monk. 

In  effect  we  had  not  proceeded  above  fifty  yards  before  the 
path  brought  us  into  a  circular  space  of  green  sod,  in  the  midst 
of  which  was  a  small  square  stone  building,  of  plain  but  not 
inelegant  shape,  and  evidently  of  great  antiquity.  At  one 
side  of  this  building  was  an  iron  handle,  for  the  purpose  of 
raising  water,  that  cast  itself  into  a  stone  basin,  to  which 
was  affixed  by  a  strong  chain  an  iron  cup.  An  inscription  in 
monkish  Latin  was  engraved  over  the  basin,  requesting  the 
traveller  to  pause  and  drink,  and  importing  that  what  that 
water  was  to  the  body,  faith  was  to  the  soul;  near  the  cistern 
was  a  rude  seat,  formed  by  the  trunk  of  a  tree.  The  door  o£ 
the  well-house  was  of  iron,  and  secixred  by  a  chain  and  lock; 


388  DEVEREUX. 

perhaps  the  pump  was  so  contrived  that  only  a  certain  quan- 
tum of  the  sanctified  beverage  could  be  drawn  up  at  a  time, 
without  application  to  some  mechanism  within;  and  wayfarers 
were  thereby  prevented  from  helping  themselves  ad  libitum, 
and  thus  depriving  the  anchorite  of  the  profit  and  the  neces- 
sity of  his  office. 

It  was  certainly  a  strange,  lonely,  and  wild  place ;  and  the 
green  sward,  round  as  a  fairy  ring,  in  the  midst  of  trees, 
which,  black,  close,  and  huge,  circled  it  like  a  wall ;  and  the 
solitary  gray  building  in  the  centre,  gaunt  and  cold,  startled 
the  eye  with  the  abruptness  of  its  appearance,  and  the  strong 
contrast  made  by  its  wan  hues  to  the  dark  verdure  and  forest 
gloom  around  it. 

I  took  a  draught  of  the  water,  which  was  very  cold  and 
tasteless,  and  reminded  the  monk  of  his  disorder  in  the  reins, 
to  which  a  similar  potation  might  possibly  be  efficacious.  To 
this  suggestion  the  monk  answered  that  he  would  certainly  try 
the  water  some  other  time ;  but  that  at  present  the  wine  he 
had  drunk  might  pollute  its  divine  properties.  So  saying,  he 
turned  off  the  conversation  by  inviting  me  to  follow  him  to 
the  hermitage. 

In  our  way  thither  he  pointed  out  a  large  fragment  of  stone, 
and  observed  that  the  water  would  do  me  evil  instead  of  good 
if  I  forgot  to  remunerate  its  guardian.  I  took  the  hint,  and 
laid  a  piece  of  silver  on  the  fragment. 

A  short  journey  through  the  wood  brought  us  to  the  foot  of 
a  hill  covered  with  trees,  and  having  at  its  base  a  strong  stone 
door,  the  entrance  to  the  excavated  home  of  the  anchorite. 
The  monk  gently  tapped  thrice  at  this  door,  but  no  answer 
came.  "The  holy  man  is  from  home,"  said  he,  "let  us 
return." 

We  did  so ;  and  the  monk,  keeping  behind  me,  managed,  as 
he  thought  unseen,  to  leave  the  stone  as  naked  as  we  had 
found  it!  We  now  struck  through  another  path  in  the  wood, 
and  were  soon  at  the  convent.  I  did  not  lose  the  opportunity 
to  question  the  Abbot  respecting  his  tenant :  I  learned  from 
him  little  more  than  the  particulars  I  have  already  narrated, 
save  that  in  concluding  his  details,  he  said :  — 


DEVEREUX.  389 

"I  can  scarcely  doubt  but  that  the  Hermit  is,  like  yourself, 
a  person  of  rank;  his  bearing  and  his  mien  appear  to  denote 
it.  He  has  given,  and  gives  yearly,  large  sums  to  the  uses 
of  the  convent:  and,  though  he  takes  the  customary  gifts  of 
the  pious  villagers,  it  is  only  by  my  advice  and  for  the  pur- 
pose of  avoiding  suspicion.  Should  he  be  considered  rich, 
it  might  attract  cupidity;  and  there  are  enough  bold  hands 
and  sharp  knives  in  the  country  to  place  the  wealthy  and  the 
unguarded  in  some  peril.  Whoever  he  may  be  —  for  he  has 
not  confided  his  secret  to  me  —  I  do  not  doubt  but  that  he  is 
doing  penance  for  some  great  crime;  and,  whatever  be  the 
crime,  I  suspect  that  its  earthly  punishment  is  nearly  over. 
The  Hermit  is  naturally  of  a  delicate  and  weak  frame,  and 
year  after  year  I  have  marked  him  sensibly  wearing  away;  so 
that  when  I  last  saw  him,  three  days  since,  I  was  shocked  at 
the  visible  ravages  which  disease  or  penance  had  engraven 
upon  him.  If  ever  Death  wrote  legibly,  its  characters  are  in 
that  brow  and  cheek." 

"  Poor  man !  Know  you  not  even  whom  to  apprise  of  his 
decease  when  he  is  no  more?" 

"  I  do  not  yet ;  but  the  last  time  I  saw  him  he  told  me  that 
he  found  himself  drawing  near  his  end,  and  that  he  should 
not  quit  life  without  troubling  me  with  one  request." 

After  this  the  Abbot  spoke  of  other  matters,  and  my  visit 
expired. 

Interested  in  the  recluse  more  deeply  than  I  acknowledged 
to  myself,  I  found  my  steps  insensibly  leading  me  homeward 
by  the  more  circuitous  road  which  wound  first  by  the  holy 
well.  I  did  not  resist  the  impulse,  but  walked  musingly 
onward  by  the  waning  twilight,  for  the  day  was  now  over, 
until  I  came  to  the  well.  As  I  emerged  from  the  wood,  I 
started  involuntarily  and  drew  back.  A  figure,  robed  from 
head  to  foot  in  a  long  sable  robe,  sat  upon  the  rude  seat  be- 
side the  well ;  sat  so  still,  so  motionless,  that  coming  upon  it 
abruptly  in  that  strange  place,  the  heart  beat  irregularly  at 
an  apparition  so  dark  in  hue  and  so  death-like  in  its  repose. 
The  hat,  large,  broad,  and  overhanging,  which  suited  the  cos- 
tume, was  lying  on  the  ground ;  and  the  face,  which  inclined 


390  DEVEREUX. 

upward,  seemed  to  woo  the  gentle  air  of  the  quiet  and  soft 
skies.  I  approached  a  few  steps,  and  saw  the  profile  of  the 
countenance  more  distinctly  than  I  had  done  before.  It  was 
of  a  marble  whiteness;  the  features,  though  sharpened  and 
attenuated  by  disease,  were  of  surpassing  beauty;  the  hair 
was  exceedingly,  almost  effeminately,  long,  and  hung  in 
waves  of  perfect  jet  on  either  side;  the  mouth  was  closed 
firmly,  and  deep  lines  or  rather  furrows  were  traced  from  its 
corners  to  either  nostril.  The  stranger's  beard,  of  a  hue 
equally  black  as  the  hair,  was  dishevelled  and  neglected,  but 
not  very  long;  and  one  hand,  which  lay  on  the  sable  robe, 
was  so  thin  and  wan  you  might  have  deemed  the  very  star- 
light could  have  shone  through  it.  I  did  not  doubt  that  it 
was  the  recluse  whom  I  saw ;  I  drew  near  and  accosted  him. 

"  Your  blessing,  holy  Father,  and  your  permission  to  taste 
the  healing  of  your  well." 

Sudden  as  was  my  appearance,  and  abrupt  my  voice,  the 
Hermit  evinced  by  no  startled  gesture  a  token  of  surprise. 
He  turned  very  slowly  round,  cast  upon  me  an  indifferent 
glance,  and  said,  in  a  sweet  and  very  low  tone,  — 

"You  have  my  blessing.  Stranger:  there  is  water  in  the 
cistern;   drink,  and  be  healed." 

I  dipped  the  bowl  in  the  basin,  and  took  sparingly  of  the 
water.  In  the  accent  and  tone  of  the  stranger,  my  ear,  accus- 
tomed to  the  dialects  of  many  nations,  recognized  something 
English;  I  resolved,  therefore,  to  address  him  in  my  native 
tongue,  rather  than  the  indifferent  Italian  in  which  I  had  first 
accosted  him. 

"The  water  is  fresh  and  cooling-  would,  holy  Father,  that 
it  could  penetrate  to  a  deeper  malady  than  the  ills  of  flesh ; 
that  it  could  assuage  the  fever  of  the  heart,  or  lave  from  the 
wearied  mind  the  dust  which  it  gathers  from  the  mire  and 
travail  of  the  world." 

Now  the  Hermit  testified  surprise;  but  it  was  slight  and 
momentary.  He  gazed  upon  me  more  attentively  than  he 
had  done  before,  and  said,  after  a  pause, — 

"My  countryman!  and  in  this  spot!  It  is  not  often  that 
the  English  penetrate  into  places  where  no  ostentatious  celeb- 


DEVEREUX.  891 

rity  dwells  to  sate  curiosity  and  flatter  pride.  My  country- 
man; it  is  well,  and  perhaps  fortunate.  Yes,"  he  said,  after 
a  second  pause,  "  yes ;  it  were  indeed  a  boon,  had  the  earth  a 
fountain  for  the  wounds  which  fester  and  the  disease  which 
consumes  the  heart." 

"The  earth  has  oblivion,  Father,  if  not  a  cure." 

"It  is  false!"  cried  the  Hermit,  passionately,  and  starting 
wildly  from  his  seat;  "the  earth  has  no  oblivion.  The 
grave, —  is  that  forgetfulness?  No,  no:  there  is  no  grave  for 
the  soul!  The  deeds  pass;  the  flesh  corrupts:  but  the  mem- 
ory passes  not,  and  withers  not.  From  age  to  age,  from 
world  to  world,  through  eternity,  throughout  creation,  it  is 
perpetuated;    and  immortality, —  a  curse,  —  a  hell!^^ 

Surprised  by  the  vehemence  of  the  Hermit,  I  was  still  more 
startled  by  the  agonizing  and  ghastly  expression  of  his  face. 

"My  Father,"  said  I,  "pardon  me  if  I  have  pressed  upon  a 
sore.  I  also  have  that  within  which,  did  a  stranger  touch  it, 
would  thrill  my  whole  frame  with  torture,  and  I  would  fain 
ask  from  your  holy,  soothing,  and  pious  comfort,  something 
of  alleviation  or  of  fortitude." 

The  Hermit  drew  near  to  me ;  he  laid  his  thin  hand  upon 
my  arm,  and  looked  long  and  wistfully  in  my  face.  It  was 
then  that  a  suspicion  crept  through  me  which  after  observa- 
tion proved  to  be  true,  that  the  wanderings  of  those  dark  eyes 
and  the  meaning  of  that  blanched  brow  were  tinctured  with 
insanity. 

"Brother  and  fellow  man,"  said  he,  mournfully,  "hast  thou 
in  truth  suffered?  and  dost  thou  still  smart  at  the  remem- 
brance? We  are  friends  then.  If  thou  hast  suffered  as  much 
as  I  have,  I  will  fall  down  and  do  homage  to  thee  as  a  supe- 
rior; for  pain  has  its  ranks,  and  I  think  at  times  that  none 
ever  climbed  the  height  that  I  have  done.  Yet  yovi  look  not 
like  one  who  has  had  nights  of  delirium,  and  days  in  which 
the  heart  lay  in  the  breast,  as  a  corpse  endowed  with  con- 
sciousness might  lie  in  the  grave,  feeling  the  worm  gnaw  it, 
and  the  decay  corrupt,  and  yet  incapable  of  resistance  or  of 
motion.  Your  cheek  is  thin,  but  firm;  your  eye  is  haughty 
and  bright;  you  have  the  air  of  one  who  has  lived  with  men, 


392  DEVEREUX. 

and  struggled  and  not  been  vanquished  in  tlie  struggle.  Suf- 
fered!    No,  man,  no, — you  have  not  suffered!  " 

"  My  Father,  it  is  not  in  the  countenance  that  Fate  graves 
her  records.  I  have,  it  is  true,  contended  with  my  fellows; 
and  if  wealth  and  honour  be  the  premium,  not  in  vain :  but  I 
have  not  contended  against  Sorrow  with  a  like  success ;  and  I 
stand  before  you,  a  being  who,  if  passion  be  a  tormentor  and 
the  death  of  the  loved  a  loss,  has  borne  that  which  the  most 
wretched  will  not  envy." 

Again  a  fearful  change  came  over  the  face  of  the  recluse : 
he  grasped  my  arm  more  vehemently,  "You  speak  my  own 
sorrows;  you  utter  my  own  curse;  I  will  see  you  again;  you 
may  do  my  last  will  better  than  yon  monks.  Can  I  trust 
you?  If  you  have  in  truth  known  misfortune,  I  will!  I  will! 
yea,  even  to  the  outpouring  —  merciful,  merciful  God,  what 
would  I  say, —  what  would  I  reveal!" 

Suddenly  changing  his  voice,  he  released  me,  and  said, 
touching  his  forehead  with  a  meaning  gesture  and  a  quiet 
smile,  "  You  say  you  are  my  rival  in  pain.  Have  you  ever 
known  the  rage  and  despair  of  the  heart  mount  here  ?  It  is  a 
wonderful  thing  to  be  calm  as  I  am  now,  when  that  rising 
makes  itself  felt  in  fire  and  torture ! " 

"  If  there  be  aught.  Father,  which  a  man  who  cares  not  what 
country  he  visit,  or  what  deed  —  so  it  be  not  of  guilt  or  shame 
—  he  commit,  can  do  towards  the  quiet  of  your  soul,  say  it, 
and  I  will  attempt  your  will." 

"You  are  kind,  my  Son,"  said  the  Hermit,  resuming  his  first 
melancholy  and  dignified  composure  of  mien  and  bearing; 
"  and  there  is  something  in  your  voice  which  seems  to  me  like 
a  tone  that  I  have  heard  in  youth.  Do  you  live  near  at 
hand?" 

"In  the  valley,  about  four  miles  hence;  I  am,  like  your- 
self, a  fugitive  from  the  world." 

"Come  to  me  then  to-morrow  at  eve;  to-morrow!  No,  that 
is  a  holy  eve,  and  I  must  keep  it  with  scourge  and  prayer. 
The  next  at  sunset.  I  shall  be  collected  then,  and  I  would 
fain  know  more  of  you  than  I  do.    Bless  you,  my  Son;  adieu." 

"Yet  stay.  Father,  may  I  not  conduct  you  home?" 


DEVEREUX.  393 

"No;  my  limbs  are  weak,  but  I  trust  they  can  carry  me  to 
tliat  home,  till  I  be  borne  thence  to  my  last.  Farewell !  the 
night  grows,  and  man  fills  even  these  shades  with  peril.  The 
eve  after  next,  at  sunset,  we  meet  again." 

So  saying,  the  hermit  waved  his  hand,  and  I  stood  apart, 
watching  his  receding  figure,  until  the  trees  cloaked  the  last 
glimpse  from  my  view.  I  then  turned  homeward,  and  reached 
my  cottage  in  safety,  despite  of  the  hermit's  caution.  But 
I  did  not  retire  to  rest:  a  powerful  foreboding,  rather  than 
suspicion,  that,  in  the  worn  and  wasted  form  which  I  had 
beheld,  thera  was  identity  with  one  whom  I  had  not  met  for 
years,  and  whom  I  had  believed  to  be  no  more,  thrillingly 
possessed  me. 

"Can  —  can  it  be?"  thought  I.  "Can  grief  have  a  desola- 
tion, or  remembrance  an  agony,  sufficient  to  create  so  awful  a 
change?  And  of  all  human  beings,  for  that  one  to  be  singled 
out;  that  one  in  whom  passion  and  sin  were,  if  they  existed, 
nipped  in  their  earliest  germ,  and  seemingly  rendered  barren 
of  all  fruit!  If  too,  almost  against  the  evidence  of  sight  and 
sense,  an  innate  feeling  has  marked  in  that  most  altered  form 
the  traces  of  a  dread  recognition,  would  not  his  memory  have 
been  yet  more  vigilant  than  mine?  Am  I  so  changed  that  he 
should  have  looked  me  in  the  face  so  wistfully,  and  found 
there  naught  save  the  lineaments  of  a  stranger?  "  And,  act- 
uated by  this  thought,  I  placed  the  light  by  the  small  mirror 
which  graced  my  chamber.  I  recalled,  as  I  gazed,  my  feat- 
ures as  they  had  been  in  earliest  j'outh.  "No,"  I  said,  with 
a  sigh,  "there  is  nothing  here  that  he  should  recognize." 

And  I  said  aright :  my  features,  originally  small  and  deli- 
cate, had  grown  enlarged  and  prominent.  The  long  locks  of 
my  youth  (for  only  upon  state  occasions  did  my  early  vanity 
consent  to  the  fashion  of  the  day)  were  succeeded  by  curls, 
short  and  crisped;  the  hues,  alternately  pale  and  hectic,  that 
the  dreams  of  romance  had  once  spread  over  my  cheek,  had  set- 
tled into  the  unchanging  bronze  of  manhood;  the  smooth  lip 
and  unshaven  chin  were  clothed  with  a  thick  hair;  the  once 
unfurrowed  brow  was  habitually  knit  in  thought;  and  the 
ardent,  restless  expression  that  boyhood  wore  had  yielded  to 


394  DEVEREUX. 

the  quiet  unmoved  countenance  of  one  in  whom  long  custom 
has  subdued  all  outward  sign  of  emotion,  and  many  and  vari- 
ous events  left  no  prevalent  token  of  the  mind  save  that  of  an 
habitual  but  latent  resolution.  My  frame,  too,  once  scarcely 
less  slight  than  a  woman's,  was  become  knit  and  muscular; 
and  nothing  was  left  by  which,  in  the  foreign  air,  the  quiet 
brow,  and  the  athletic  form,  my  very  mother  could  have  rec- 
ognized the  slender  figure  and  changeable  face  of  the  boy  she 
had  last  beheld.  The  very  sarcasm  of  the  eye  was  gone ;  and 
I  had  learned  the  world's  easy  lesson,— the  dissimulation  of 
composure. 

I  have  noted  one  thing  in  others,  and  it  was  particularly 
noticeable  in  me;  namely,  that  few  who  mix  very  largely 
with  men,  and  with  the  courtier's  or  the  citizen's  design,  ever 
retain  the  key  and  tone  of  their  original  voice.  The  voice  of 
a  young  man  is  as  yet  modulated  by  nature,  and  expresses  the 
passion  of  the  moment;  that  of  the  matured  pupil  of  art  ex- 
presses rather  the  customary  occupation  of  his  life.  Whether 
he  aims  at  persuading,  convincing,  or  commanding  others, 
his  voice  irrevocably  settles  into  the  key  he  ordinarily  em- 
ploys ;  and,  as  persuasion  is  the  means  men  chiefly  employ  in 
their  commerce  with  each  other,  especially  in  the  regions  of  a 
court,  so  a  tone  of  artificial  blandness  and  subdued  insinua- 
tion is  chiefly  that  in  which  the  accents  of  worldly  men  are 
clothed;  the  artificial  intonation,  long  continued,  grows  into 
nature,  and  the  very  pith  and  basis  of  the  original  sound  frit- 
ter themselves  away.  The  change  was  great  in  me,  for  at 
that  time  which  I  brought  in  comparison  with  the  present  my 
age  was  one  in  which  the  voice  is  yet  confused  and  undecided, 
struggling  between  the  accents  of  youth  and  boyhood;  so  that 
even  this  most  powerful  and  unchanging  of  all  claims  upon 
the  memory  v.^as  in  a  great  measure  absent  in  me ;  and  noth- 
ing but  an  occasional  and  rare  tone  could  have  produced  even 
that  faint  and  unconscious  recognition  which  the  Hermit  had 
confessed. 

I  must  be  pardoned  these  egotisms,  which  the  nature  of  my 
story  renders  necessary. 

With  what  eager  impatience  did  I  watch  the  hours  to  the 


DEVEREUX.  395 

appointed  interview  with  the  Hermit  languish  themselves 
away!  However,  before  that  time  arrived  and  towards  the 
evening  of  the  next  day,  I  was  surprised  by  the  rare  honour 
of  a  visit  from  Anselmo  himself.  He  came  attended  by  two 
of  the  mendicant  friars  of  his  order,  and  they  carried  between 
them  a  basket  of  tolerable  size,  which,  as  mine  hostess  after- 
wards informed  me,  with  many  a  tear,  went  back  somewhat 
heavier  than  it  came,  from  the  load  of  certain  receptacula  of 
that  rarer  wine  which  she  had  had  the  evening  before  the  in- 
discreet hospitality  to  produce. 

The  Abbot  came  to  inform  me  that  the  Hermit  had  been  with 
him  that  morning,  making  many  inquiries  respecting  me.  "I 
told  him,"  said  he,  "that  I  was  acquainted  with  your  name 
and  birth,  but  that  I  was  under  a  solemn  promise  not  to  re- 
veal them,  without  your  consent ;  and  I  am  now  here,  my  Son, 
to  learn  from  you  whether  that  consent  may  be  obtained?  " 

"  Assuredly  not,  holy  Father !  "  said  I,  hastily ;  nor  was  I 
contented  until  I  had  obtained  a  renewal  of  his  promise  to 
that  effect.  This  seemed  to  give  the  Abbot  some  little  cha- 
grin :  perhaps  the  Hermit  had  offered  a  reward  for  my  discov- 
ery. However,  I  knew  that  Anselmo,  though  a  griping  was 
a  trustworthy  man,  and  I  felt  safe  in  his  renewed  promise.  I 
saw  him  depart  with  great  satisfaction,  and  gave  myself  once 
more  to  conjectures  respecting  the  strange  recluse. 

As  the  next  evening  I  prepared  to  depart  towards  the  her- 
mitage, I  took  peculiar  pains  to  give  my  person  a  foreign  and 
disguised  appearance.  A  loose  dress,  of  rude  and  simple 
material,  and  a  high  cap  of  fur,  were  pretty  successful  in  ac- 
complishing this  purpose.  And,  as  I  gave  the  last  look  at 
the  glass  before  I  left  the  house,  I  said  inly,  "If  there  be 
any  truth  in  my  wild  and  improbable  conjecture  respecting 
the  identity  of  the  anchorite,  I  think  time  and  this  dress  are 
sufficient  wizards  to  secure  me  from  a  chance  of  discovery.  I 
will  keep  a  guard  upon  my  words  and  tones,  until,  if  my 
thought  be  verified,  a  moment  fit  for  unmasking  myself  ar- 
rives. But  would  to  God  that  the  thought  be  groundless !  In 
such  circumstances,  and  after  such  an  absence,  to  meet  him! 
No;  and  yet —    Well,  this  meeting  will  decide." 


396  DEVEREUX. 


CHAPTEK  IV. 

THE   SOLUTION    OF   MANY    MYSTERIES. A    DARK   VIEW  OF   THE 

LIFE   AND   NATURE   OF   MAN. 

Powerful,  though  not  clearly  developed  in  my  own  mind, 
was  the  motive  which  made  me  so  strongly  desire  to  preserve 
the  incognito  during  my  interview  with  the  Hermit.  I  have 
before  said  that  I  could  not  resist  a  vague  but  intense  belief 
that  he  was  a  person  whom  I  had  long  believed  in  the  grave ; 
and  I  had  more  than  once  struggled  against  a  dark  but  pass- 
ing suspicion  that  that  person  was  in  some  measure  —  medi- 
ately, though  not  directly  —  connected  with  the  mysteries  of 
my  former  life.  If  both  these  conjectures  were  true,  I 
thought  it  possible  that  the  communication  the  Hermit  wished 
to  make  might  be  made  yet  more  willingly  to  me  as  a  stranger 
than  if  he  knew  who  was  in  reality  his  confidant.  And,  at 
all  events,  if  I  could  curb  the  impetuous  gushings  of  my  own 
heart,  which  yearned  for  immediate  disclosure,  I  might  by 
hint  and  prelude  ascertain  the  advantages  and  disadvantages 
of  revealing  myself. 

I  arrived  at  the  well :  the  Hermit  was  already  at  the  place 
of  rendezvous,  seated  in  the  same  posture  in  which  I  had 
before  seen  him.     I  made  my  reverence  and  accosted  him. 

"I  have  not  failed  you,  Father." 

"That  is  rarely  a  true  boast  with  men,"  said  the  Hermit, 
smiling  mournfully,  but  Avithout  sarcasm;  "and  were  the 
promise  of  greater  avail,  it  might  not  have  been  so  rigidly 
kept." 

"  The  promise,  Father,  seemed  to  me  of  greater  weight  than 
you  would  intimate,"  answered  I. 

"How  mean  you?"  said  the  Hermit,  hastily. 

"Why,  that  we  may  perhaps  serve  each  other  by  our  meet- 
ing :  you,  Father,  may  comfort  me  by  your  counsels ;  I  you  by 
my  readiness  to  obey  your  request." 


DEVEREUX.  397 

The  Hermit  looked  at  me  for  some  moments,  and,  as  well  as 
I  could,  I  turned  away  my  face  from  his  gaze.  I  might  have 
spared  myself  the  effort.  He  seemed  to  recognize  nothing 
familiar  in  my  countenance;  perhaps  his  mental  malady  as- 
sisted my  own  alteration. 

"  I  have  inquired  respecting  you, "  he  said,  after  a  pause, 
"and  I  hear  that  you  are  a  learned  and  wise  man,  who  has 
seen  much  of  the  world,  and  played  the  part  both  of  soldier 
and  of  scholar  in  its  various  theatres:  is  my  information 
true?  " 

"  Not  true  with  the  respect  to  the  learning,  Father,  but  true 
with  regard  to  the  experience.  I  have  been  a  pilgrim  in 
many  countries  of  Europe." 

"Indeed!"  said  the  Hermit,  eagerly.  "Come  with  me  to 
my  home,  and  tell  me  of  the  wonders  you  have  seen. " 

I  assisted  the  Hermit  to  rise,  and  he  walked  slowly  towards 
the  cavern,  leaning  upon  my  arm.  Oh,  how  that  light  touch 
thrilled  through  my  frame !  How  I  longed  to  cry,  "  Are  you 
not  the  one  whom  I  have  loved,  and  mourned,  and  believed 
buried  in  the  tomb?"  But  I  checked  myself.  We  moved  on 
in  silence.  The  Hermit's  hand  was  on  the  door  of  the  cavern, 
when  he  said,  in  a  calm  tone,  but  with  evident  effort,  and 
turning  his  face  from  me  while  he  spoke:  — 

"  And  did  your  wanderings  ever  carry  you  into  the  farther 
regions  of  the  north?  Did  the  fame  of  the  great  Czar  ever 
lead  you  to  the  city  he  has  founded?" 

"I  am  right!  I  am  right!  "  thought  I,  as  I  answered,  "In 
truth,  holy  Father,  I  spent  not  a  long  time  at  Petersburg;  but 
I  am  not  a  stranger  either  to  its  wonders  or  its  inhabitants." 

"Possibly,  then,  you  may  have  met  with  the  English  fa- 
vourite of  the  Czar  of  whom  I  hear  in  my  retreat  that  men 
have  lately  spoken  somewhat  largely?  "  The  Hermit  paused 
again.  We  were  now  in  a  long,  low  passage,  almost  in  dark- 
ness. I  scarcely  saw  him,  yet  I  heard  a  convulsed  movement 
in  his  throat  before  he  uttered  the  remainder  of  the  sentence. 
"He  is  called  the  Count  Devereux." 

"Father,"  said  I,  calmly,  "I  have  both  seen  and  known  the 
man." 


398  DEVEREUX. 

"  Ha!  "  said  the  Hermit,  and  he  leaned  for  a  moment  against 
the  wall;  "known  him  —  and  —  how  —  how  —  I  mean,  where 
is  he  at  this  present  time?" 

"That,  Father,  is  a  difficult  question  respecting  one  who 
has  led  so  active  a  life.  He  was  ambassador  at  the  court  of 
,  just  before  I  left  it." 

We  had  now  passed  the  passage  and  gained  a  room  of  tol- 
erable size;  an  iron  lamp  burned  within,  and  afforded  a  suffi- 
cient but  somewhat  dim  light.  The  Hermit,  as  I  concluded 
my  reply,  sank  down  on  a  long  stone  bench,  beside  a  table  of 
the  same  substance,  and  leaning  his  face  on  his  hand,  so  that 
the  long,  large  sleeve  he  wore  perfectly  concealed  his  feat- 
ures, said,  "Pardon  me;  my  breath  is  short,  and  my  frame 
weak;  I  am  quite  exhausted,  but  will  speak  to  j^ou  more 
anon. " 

I  uttered  a  short  answer,  and  drew  a  small  wooden  stool 
within  a  few  feet  of  the  Hermit's  seat.  After  a  brief  silence 
he  rose,  placed  wine,  bread,  and  preserved  fruits  before  me 
and  bade  me  eat.  I  seemed  to  comply  with  his  request,  and 
the  apparent  diversion  of  my  attention  from  himself  some- 
what relieved  the  embarrassment  under  which  he  evidently 
laboured. 

"May  I  hope,"  he  said,  "that  were  my  commission  to  this 
—  to  the  Count  Devereux  —  you  would  execute  it  faithfully 
and  with  speed?  Yet  stay:  you  have  a  high  mien,  as  of  one 
above  fortune,  but  your  garb  is  rude  and  poor ;  and  if  aught 
of  gold  could  compensate  your  trouble,  the  Hermit  has  other 
treasuries  besides  this  cell." 

"I  will  do  your  bidding,  Father,  without  robbing  the  poor. 
You  wish,  then,  that  I  should  seek  Morton  Devereux;  you 
wish  that  I  should  summon  him  hither;  you  wish  to  see  and 
to  confer  with  him?" 

"  God  of  mercy  forbid !  "  cried  the  Hermit,  and  with  such  a 
vehemence  that  I  was  startled  from  the  design  of  revealing 
myself,  which  I  was  on  the  point  of  executing.  "I  would 
rather  that  these  walls  would  crush  me  into  dust,  or  that  this 
solid  stone  would  crumble  beneath  my  feet, —  ay,  even  into 
a  bottomless  pit,  than  meet  the  glance  of  Morton  Devereux  I " 


DEVEREUX.  399 

"Is  it  even  so?"  said  I,  stooping  over  the  wine-cup;  "ye 
have  been  foes  then,  I  suspect.  \Yell,  it  matters  not:  tell 
me  your  errand,  and  it  shall  be  done." 

"Done!  "  cried  the  Hermit,  and  a  new  and  certainly  a  most 
natural  suspicion  darted  within  him,  "done!  and  —  fool  that 
I  am!  —  who  or  what  are  you  that  I  should  believe  you  take 
so  keen  an  interest  in  the  wishes  of  a  man  utterly  unknown 
to  3'ou?  I  tell  you  that  my  wish  is  that  you  should  cross  seas 
and  traverse  lands  until  you  find  the  man  I  have  named  to 
you.  "Will  a  stranger  do  this,  and  without  hire?  Xo  —  no  — 
I  was  a  fool,  and  will  trust  the  monks,  and  give  gold,  and 
then  my  errand  will  be  sped." 

"Father,  or  rather  brother,"  said  I,  with  a  slow  and  firm 
voice,  "for  you  are  of  mine  own  age,  and  you  have  the  pas- 
sion and  the  infirmity  which  make  brethren  of  all  mankind,  I 
am  one  to  whom  all  places  are  alike :  it  matters  not  whether 
I  visit  a  northern  or  a  southern  clime;  I  have  wealth,  which 
is  sufficient  to  smooth  toil ;  I  have  leisure,  which  makes  occu- 
pation an  enjoyment.  More  than  this,  I  am  one  who  in  his 
gayest  and  wildest  moments  has  ever  loved  mankind,  and 
would  have  renounced  at  any  time  his  own  pleasure  for  the 
advantage  of  another.  But  at  this  time,  above  all  others,  I 
am  most  disposed  to  forget  myself,  and  there  is  a  passion  in 
your  words  which  leads  me  to  hope  that  it  may  be  a  great 
benefit  which  I  can  confer  upon  you." 

"You  speak  well,"  said  the  Hermit,  musingly,  "and  I  maj^ 
trust  you;  I  will  consider  yet  a  little  longer,  and  to-morrow 
at  this  hour  you  shall  have  my  final  answer.  If  you  execute 
the  charge  I  entrust  to  you,  may  the  blessing  of  a  dying  and 
most  wretched  man  cleave  to  you  forever!  But  hush;  the 
clock  strikes:    it  is  my  hour  of  prayer." 

And,  pointing  to  a  huge  black  clock  that  hung  opposite  the 
door,  and  indicated  the  hour  of  nine  (according  to  our  Eng- 
lish mode  of  numbering  the  hours),  the  Hermit  fell  on  his 
knees,  and,  clasping  his  hands  tightly,  bent  his  face  over 
them  in  the  attitude  of  humiliation  and  devotion.  I  fol- 
lowed his  example.  After  a  few  minutes  he  rose :  "  Once  in 
every  three  hours,"  said  he,  with  a  ghastly  expression,  "for 


400  DEVEREUX. 

the  last  twelve  years  have  I  bowed  my  soul  in  anguish  before 
God,  and  risen  to  feel  that  it  was  in  vain :  I  am  cursed  with- 
out and  Avithin !  " 

"  My  Father,  my  Father,  is  this  your  faith  in  the  mercies  of 
the  Redeemer  who  died  for  man?" 

"  Talk  not  to  me  of  faith !  "  cried  the  Hermit,  wildly.  "  Ye 
laymen  and  worldlings  know  nothing  of  its  mysteries  and  its 
powers.  But  begone !  the  dread  hour  is  upon  me,  when  my 
tongue  is  loosed  and  my  brain  darkened,  and  I  know  not  my 
words  and  shudder  at  my  own  thoughts.  Begone !  no  human 
being  shall  witness  those  moments :  they  are  only  for  Heaven 
and  my  own  soul." 

So  saying,  this  unhappy  and  strange  being  seized  me  by  the 
arm  and  dragged  me  towards  the  passage  we  had  entered.  I 
was  in  doubt  whether  to  yield  to  or  contend  with  him;  but 
there  was  a  glare  in  his  eye  and  a  flush  upon  his  brow,  which, 
while  it  betrayed  the  dreadful  disease  of  his  mind,  made  me 
fear  that  resistance  to  his  wishes  might  operate  dangerously 
upon  a  frame  so  feeble  and  reduced.  I  therefore  mechani- 
cally obeyed  him.  He  opened  again  the  entrance  to  his 
rugged  home,  and  the  moonlight  streamed  wanly  over  his 
dark  robes  and  spectral  figure. 

"Go,"  said  he,  more  mildly  than  before,  "go,  and  forgive 
the  vehemence  of  one  whose  mind  and  heart  alike  are  broken 
within  him.  Go,  but  return  to-morrow  at  sunset.  Your  air 
disposes  me  to  trust  you." 

So  saying,  he  closed  the  door  upon  me,  and  I  stood  without 
the  cavern  alone. 

But  did  I  return  home?  Did  I  hasten  to  press  my  couch  in 
sleep  and  sweet  forgetfulness,  while  he  was  in  that  gloomy 
sepulture  of  the  living,  a  prey  to  anguish,  and  torn  by  the 
fangs  of  madness  and  a  fierce  disease?  No:  on  the  damp 
grass,  beneath  the  silent  skies,  I  passed  a  night  which  could 
scarcely  have  been  less  wretched  than  his  own.  IVIy  conject- 
ure was  now  and  in  full  confirmed.  Heavens!  how  I  loved 
that  man!  how,  from  my  youngest  years,  had  my  soul's  fond- 
est affections  interlaced  themselves  with  him!  with  what  an- 
guish had  I  wept  his  imagined  death !  and  now  to  know  that 


DEVEREUX.  401 

he  lay  within  those  walls,  smitten  from  brain  to  heart  with 
so  fearful  and  mysterious  a  curse, —  to  know,  too,  that  he 
dreaded  the  sight  of  me, —  of  me  who  would  have  laid  down 
my  life  for  his !  the  grave,  which  I  imagined  his  home,  had 
been  a  mercy  to  a  doom  like  this. 

"He  fears,"  I  murmured,  and  I  wept  as  I  said  it,  "to  look 
on  one  who  would  watch  over,  and  soothe,  and  bear  with  him, 
with  more  than  a  woman's  love!  By  what  awful  fate  has 
this  calamity  fallen  on  one  so  holy  and  so  pure?  or  by  what 
preordered  destiny  did  I  come  to  these  solitudes,  to  find  at 
the  same  time  a  new  charm  for  the  earth  and  a  spell  to  change 
it  again  into  a  desert  and  a  place  of  woe?  " 

All  night  I  kept  vigil  by  the  cave,  and  listened  if  I  could 
catch  moan  or  sound;  but  everything  was  silent:  the  thick 
walls  of  the  rock  kept  even  the  voice  of  despair  from  my  ear. 
The  day  dawned,  and  I  retired  among  the  trees,  lest  the  Her- 
mit might  come  out  unawares  and  see  me.  At  sunrise  I  saw 
him  appear  for  a  few  moments  and  again  retire,  and  I  then 
hastened  home,  exhausted  and  wearied  by  the  internal  con- 
flicts of  the  night,  to  gather  coolness  and  composure  for  the 
ensuing  interview,  which  I  contemplated  at  once  with  eager- 
ness and  dread. 

At  the  appointed  hour  I  repaired  to  the  cavern :  the  door 
was  partially  closed;  I  opened  it,  hearing  no  answer  to  my 
knock,  and  walked  gently  along  the  passage ;  but  I  now  heard 
shrieks  and  groans  and  wild  laughter  as  I  neared  the  rude 
chamber.  I  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  in  terror  and  dis- 
may entered  the  apartment.  It  was  empty,  but  I  saw  near 
the  clock  a  small  door,  from  within  which  the  sounds  that 
alarmed  me  proceeded.  I  had  no  scruple  in  opening  it,  and 
found  myself  in  the  Hermit's  sleeping  chamber,  —  a  small  dark 
room,  where,  upon  a  straw  pallet,  lay  the  wretched  occupant 
in  a  state  of  frantic  delirium.  I  stood  mute  and  horror-struck, 
v/hile  his  exclamations  of  frenzy  burst  upon  my  ear. 

"There  —  there!"  he  cried,  "I  have  struck  thee  to  the 
heart,  and  now  I  will  kneel,  and  kiss  those  white  lips,  and 
bathe  my  hands  in  that  blood!  Ha!  —  do  I  hate  thee?  —  hate 
—  ay  —  hate,  abhor,  detest!    Have  you  the  beads  there?  —  let 

26 


402  DEVEREUX. 

me  tell  them.     Yes,  I  will  go  to  the  confessional  —  confess? 

—  No,  no  —  all  the  priests  in  the  world  could  not  lift  up  a 
soul  so  heavy  with  guilt.  Help  —  help  —  help!  I  am  fall- 
ing—  falling  —  there  is  the  pit,  and  the  fire,  and  the  devils! 
Do  you  hear  them  laugh?  —  I  can  laugh  too! — ha  I  ha!  ha! 
Hush,  I  have  written  it  all  out,  in  a  fair  hand ;  he  shall  read 
it;  and  then,  0  God!  what  curses  he  will  heap  upon  my 
head!  Blessed  Saint  Francis,  hear  me!  Lazarus,  Lazarus, 
speak  for  me !  " 

Thus  did  the  Hermit  rave,  while  my  flesh  crept  to  hear  him. 
I  stood  by  his  bedside,  and  called  on  him,  but  he  neither 
heard  nor  saw  me.  Upon  the  ground,  by  the  bed's  head,  as 
if  it  had  dropped  from  under  the  pillow,  was  a  packet  sealed 
and  directed  to  myself.  I  knew  the  handwriting  at  a  glance, 
even  though  the  letters  were  blotted  and  irregular,  and  possi- 
bly traced  in  the  first  moment  that  his  present  curse  fell  upon 
the  writer.  I  placed  the  packet  in  my  bosom;  the  Hermit 
saw  not  the  motion;  he  lay  back  on  the  bed,  seemingly  in 
utter  exhaustion.  I  turned  away,  and  hastened  to  the  monas- 
tery for  assistance.  As  I  hurried  through  the  passage,  the 
Hermit's  shrieks  again  broke  upon  me,  with  a  fiercer  vehe- 
mence than  before.  I  flew  from  them,  as  if  they  were  sounds 
from  the  abyss  of  Hades.  I  flew  till,  breathless,  and  half- 
senseless  myself,  I  fell  down  exhausted  by  the  gate  of  the 
monastery. 

The  two  most  skilled  in  physic  of  the  brethren  were  imme- 
diately summoned,  and  they  lost  not  a  moment  in  accompany- 
ing me  to  the  cavern.  All  that  evening,  until  midnight,  the 
frenzy  of  the  maniac  seemed  rather  to  increase  than  abate. 
But  at  that  hour,  exactly  indeed  as  the  clock  struck  twelve, 
he  fell  all  at  once  into  a  deep  sleep. 

Then  for  the  first  time,  but  not  till  the  weary  brethren  had 
at  this  favourable  symptom  permitted  themselves  to  return 
for  a  brief  interval  to  the  monastery,  to  seek  refreshment  for 
themselves  and  to  bring  down  new  medicines  for  the  patient, 

—  then,  for  the  first  time,  I  rose  from  the  Hermit's  couch  by 
which  I  had  hitherto  kept  watch,  and  repairing  to  the  outer 
chamber,  took  forth  the  packet  superscribed  with  my  name. 


DEVEREUX.  403 

There,  alone  in  tliat  gray  vault,  and  by  the  sepulchral  light 
of  the  single  lamp,  I  read  what  follows :  — 

THE    HERMIT'S    MANUSCRIPT. 

Morton  Devereux,  if  ever  this  reach  you,  read  it,  shudder,  and,  what- 
ever your  afflictions,  bless  God  that  you  are  not  as  I  am.  Do  you  re- 
member my  prevailing  characteristic  as  a  boy  ?  No,  you  do  not.  You 
■will  say  "  devotion  !  "  It  was  not  I  "  Gentleness."  It  was  not :  it  was 
Jealousy!  Now  does  the  truth  flash  on  you?  Yes,  that  was  the 
disease  that  was  in  my  blood,  and  in  my  heart,  and  through  whose 
ghastly  medium  every  living  object  was  beheld.  Did  I  love  you  ?  Yes, 
I  loved  you,  —  ay,  almost  with  a  love  equal  to  your  own.  I  loved  my 
mother  ;  I  loved  Gerald  ;  I  loved  Montreuil.  It  was  a  part  of  my  nature 
to  love,  and  I  did  not  resist  the  impulse.  You  I  loved  better  than  all ; 
but  I  was  jealous  of  each.  If  my  mother  caressed  you  or  Gerald,  if  you 
opened  your  heart  to  either,  it  stung  me  to  the  quick.  I  it  was  who  said 
to  my  mother,  "  Caress  him  not,  or  I  shall  think  you  love  him  better 
than  me."  I  it  was  who  widened,  from  my  veriest  childhood,  the  breach 
between  Gerald  and  yourself.  I  it  was  who  gave  to  the  childish  reproach 
a  venom,  and  to  the  childish  quarrel  a  barb.  Was  this  love  ?  Yes,  it 
was  love;  but  I  could  not  endure  that  ye  should  love  one  another  as 
ye  loved  me.  It  delighted  me  when  one  confided  to  my  ear  a  complaint 
against  the  other,  and  said,  "  Aubrey,  this  blow  could  not  have  come 
from  thee  !  " 

IVIontreuil  early  perceived  my  bias  of  temper :  he  might  have  cor- 
rected it  and  with  ease.  I  was  not  evil  in  disposition ;  I  was  insensible 
of  my  own  vice.  Had  its  malignity  been  revealed  to  me,  I  should  have 
recoiled  in  horror.  Montreuil  had  a  vast  power  over  me ;  he  could 
mould  me  at  his  will.  Montreuil,  I  repeat,  might  have  saved  me,  and 
thyself,  and  a  third  being,  better  and  purer  than  either  of  us  was,  even 
in  our  cradles.  Montreuil  did  not :  he  had  an  object  to  serve,  and  he 
sacrificed  our  whole  house  to  it.  He  found  me  one  day  weeping  over  a 
dog  that  I  had  killed.  "  Why  did  you  destroy  it  ? "  he  said ;  and  I 
answered,  "  Because  it  loved  ^Morton  better  than  me  !  "  And  the  priest 
said,  "  Thou  didst  right,  Aubrey  !  "  Yes,  from  that  time  he  took  ad- 
vantage of  my  infirmity,  and  could  rouse  or  calm  all  my  passions  in 
proportion   as  he  irritated  or  soothed   it. 

You  know  this  man's  object  during  the  latter  period  of  his  residence 
with  us  :  it  was  the  restoration  of  the  House  of  Stuart.  He  was  alter- 
nately the  spy  and  the  agitator  in  that  cause.  Among  more  comprehen- 
sive plans  for  eflfecting  this  object,  was  that  of  securing  the  heirs  to  the 
great  wealth  and  popular  name  of  Sir  William   Devereux.     This  was 


404  DEVEREUX. 

only  a  minor  mesh  in  the  intricate  web  of  his  schemes ;  but  it  is  the 
character  of  the  man  to  take  exactly  the  same  pains,  and  pursue  the 
same  laborious  intrigues,  for  a  small  object  as  for  a  great  one.  His 
first  impression,  on  entering  our  house,  was  in  favour  of  Gerald ;  and  I 
believe  he  really  likes  him  to  this  day  better  than  either  of  us.  Partly 
your  sarcasms,  partly  Gerald's  disputes  with  you,  partly  my  repre- 
sentations,—  for  I  was  jealous  even  of  the  love  of  Montreuil,  —  prepos- 
sessed him  against  you.  He  thought,  too,  that  Gerald  had  more  talent 
to  serve  his  purposes  than  yourself  and  more  facility  in  being  moulded 
to  them ;  and  he  believed  our  uncle's  partiality  to  you  far  from  being 
unalienable.  I  have  said  that,  at  the  latter  period  of  his  residence  with 
us,  he  was  an  agent  of  the  exiled  cause.  At  the  time  I  now  speak  of, 
he  had  not  entered  into  the  great  political  scheme  which  engrossed  him 
afterwards.  He  was  merely  a  restless  and  aspiring  priest,  whose  whole 
hope,  object,  ambition,  was  the  advancement  of  his  order.  He  knew 
that  whoever  inherited,  or  whoever  shared,  my  uncle's  wealth,  could, 
under  legitimate  regulation,  promote  any  end  which  the  heads  of  that 
order  might  select ;  and  he  wished  therefore  to  gain  the  mastery  over 
us  all.  Intrigue  was  essentially  woven  with  his  genius,  and  by  intrigue 
only  did  he  ever  seek  to  arrive  at  any  end  he  had  in  view.^  He  soon 
obtained  a  mysterious  and  pervading  power  over  Gerald  and  myself. 
Tour  temper  at  once  irritated  him,  and  made  him  despair  of  obtaining 
an  ascendant  over  one  who,  though  he  testified  in  childhood  none  of  the 
talents  for  which  he  has  since  been  noted,  testified,  nevertheless,  a 
shrewd,  penetrating,  and  sarcastic  power  of  observation  and  detection. 
You,  therefore,  he  resolved  to  leave  to  the  irregularities  of  your  own 
nature,  confident  that  they  would  yield  him  the  opportunity  of  detaching 
your  uncle  from  you  and  ultimately  securing  to  Gerald  his  estates. 

The  trial  at  school  first  altered  his  intentions.  He  imagined  that  he 
then  saw  in  you  powers  which  might  be  rendered  availing  to  him  :  he 
conr)uered  his  pride  —  a  great  feature  in  his  character  —  and  he  resolved 
to  seek  your  affection.  Your  subsequent  regularity  of  habits  and  suc- 
cess in  study  confirmed  him  in  his  resolution  ;  and  when  he  learned  from 
my  uncle's  own  lips  that  the  Devereux  estates  would  devolve  on  you,  he 
thought  that  it  would  be  easier  to  secure  your  affection  to  him  than  to 
divert  that  affection  which  my  uncle  had  conceived  for  you.  At  this 
time,  I  repeat,  he  had  no  particular  object  in  view;  none,  at  least,  beyond 
that  of  obtaining  for  the  interest  of  his  order  the  direction  of  great 
wealth  and  some  political  influence.  Some  time  after  —  I  know  not 
exactly  when,  but  before  we  returned  to  take  our  permanent  abode  at 

^  It  will  be  observed  that  Aubrey  frequently  repeats  former  assertions; 
this  is  one  of  the  most  customary  traits  of  insanity.  —  Ed. 


DEVEREUX.  405 

Devereux  Court  —  a  share  in  the  grand  poUtical  intrigue  which  was 
then  in  so  many  branches  carried  on  throughout  England,  and  even 
Europe,  was  confided  to  Montreuil. 

In  this  I  beUeve  he  was  the  servant  of  his  order,  rather  than  immedi- 
ately of  the  exiled  House ;  and  I  have  since  heard  that  even  at  that  day 
he  had  aciiuired  a  great  reputation  among  the  professors  of  the  former 
You,  Morton,  he  decoyed  not  into  this  scheme  before  he  left  England  : 
he  had  not  acquired  a  sufficient  influence  over  you  to  trust  you  with  the 
disclosure.  To  Gerald  and  myself  he  was  more  confidential.  Gerald 
eagerly  embraced  his  projects  through  a  spirit  of  enterprise  ;  I  through 
a  spirit  of  awe  and  of  religion  Religion  1  Yes.  —  then,  —  long  after, 
—  now,  —  when  my  heart  was  and  is  the  home  of  all  withering  and  evil 
passions.  Religion  reigned,  —  reigns,  over  me  a  despot  and  a  tyrant. 
Its  terrors  haunt  me  at  this  hour ;  they  people  the  earth  and  the  air 
with  shapes  of  ghastly  menace  !  They  —  Heaven  pardon  me !  what 
would  my  madness  utter?  Madness?  —  madness?  Ay,  that  is  the  real 
scourge,  the  real  fire,  the  real  torture,  the  real  hell,  of  this  fair  earth  ! 

Montreuil,  then,  by  different  pleas,  won  over  Gerald  and  myself.  He 
left  us,  but  engaged  us  in  constant  correspondence  "  Aubrey,"  he  said, 
before  he  departed,  and  when  he  saw  that  I  was  wounded  by  his  appar- 
ent cordiality  towards  you  and  Gerald  —  "  Aubrey,"  he  said,  soothing 
me  on  this  point,  "  think  not  that  I  trust  Gerald  or  the  arrogant  Morton 
as  I  trust  you.  You  have  my  real  heart  and  my  real  trust.  It  is  neces- 
sary to  the  execution  of  this  project,  so  important  to  the  interests  of 
religion  and  so  agreeable  to  the  will  of  Heaven,  that  we  should  secure 
all  co-operators  ;  but  they,  your  brothers,  Aubrey,  are  the  tools  of  that 
mighty  design  ;  you  are  its  friend."'  Thus  it  was  that,  at  all  times  when 
he  irritated  too  sorely  the  vice  of  my  nature,  he  flattered  it  into  second- 
ing his  views;  and  thus,  instead  of  conquering  my  evil  passions,  he  con- 
quered by  them.     Curses  —  No,  no,  no  !  —  I  will  be  calm. 

We  returned  to  Devereux  Court,  and  we  grew  from  boyhood  into 
youth.  I  loved  you  then,  Morton.  Ah  I  what  would  I  not  give  now 
for  one  pure  feeling,  such  as  I  felt  in  your  love  ?  Do  you  remember  the 
day  on  which  you  had  extorted  from  my  uncle  his  consent  to  your  leav- 
ing us  for  the  pleasures  and  pomps  of  London  ?  Do  you  remember  the 
evening  of  that  day,  when  I  came  to  seek  you,  and  we  sat  down  on  a 
little  mound,  and  talked  over  your  projects,  and  you  spoke  then  to  me 
of  my  devotion  and  my  purer  and  colder  feelings  ?  ^lorton,  at  that 
very  moment  my  veins  burned  with  passion  I  —  at  that  very  moment  my 
heart  was  feeding  the  vulture  fated  to  live  and  prey  within  it  forever  I 
Thrice  did  I  resolve  to  confide  in  you,  as  we  then  sat  together,  and 
thrice  did  my  evil  genius  forbid  it.  You  seemed,  even  in  your  affection 
to  me,  so  wholly  engrossed  with  your  own  hopes ;  you  seemed  so  little  to 


406  DEVEREUX. 

regret  leaving  me ;  you  stung,  so  often  and  so  deeply,  in  our  short  con- 
ference, that  feeling  which  made  me  desire  to  monopolize  all  things  in 
those  I  loved,  that  I  said  inly,  —  "  Why  should  I  bare  my  heart  to  one 
who  can  so  little  understand  it  ?  "  And  so  we  turned  home,  and  you 
dreamed  not  of  that  which  was  then  within  me,  and  which  was  destined 
to  be  your  curse  and  mine 

Not  many  weeks  previous  to  that  night,  I  had  seen  one  whom  to  see 
was  to  love  !  Love  !  —  I  tell  you,  Morton,  that  that  word  is  expressive 
of  soft  and  fond  emotion,  and  there  should  be  another  expressive  of  all 
that  is  fierce  and  dark  and  unrelenting  in  the  human  heart  I  —  all  that 
seems  most  like  the  deadliest  and  the  blackest  hate,  and  yet  is  not  hate ! 
1  saw  this  being,  and  from  that  moment  my  real  nature,  which  had  slept 
hitherto,  awoke  !  I  remember  well  it  was  one  evening  in  the  beginning 
of  summer  that  I  first  saw  her.  She  sat  alone  in  the  little  garden  beside 
the  cottage  door,  and  I  paused,  and,  unseen,  looked  over  the  slight  fence 
that  separated  us,  and  fed  my  eyes  with  a  loveliness  that  I  thought  till 
then  only  twilight  or  the  stars  could  wear !  From  that  evening  I  came, 
night  after  night,  to  watch  her  from  the  same  spot ;  and  every  time  I 
beheld  her  the  poison  entered  deeper  and  deeper  into  my  system.  At 
length  I  had  an  opportunity  of  being  known  to  her,  of  speaking  to  her, 
of  hearing  her  speak,  of  touching  the  ground  she  had  hallowed,  of  enter- 
ing the  home  where  she  dwelt  1 

I  must  explain :  I  said  that  both  Gerald  and  myself  corresponded 
privately  with  Montreuil ;  we  were  both  bound  over  to  secrecy  with 
regard  to  you  ;  and  this,  my  temper  and  Gerald's  coolness  with  you 
rendered  an  easy  obligation  to  both ;  —  I  say  my  temper,  for  I  loved  to 
think  I  had  a  secret  not  known  to  another ;  and  I  carried  this  reserve 
even  to  the  degree  of  concealing  from  Gerald  himself  the  greater  part  of 
the  correspondence  between  me  and  the  Abl)e.  In  his  correspondence 
with  each  of  us,  Montreuil  acted  with  his  usual  skill ;  to  Gerald,  as  the 
elder  in  years,  the  more  prone  to  enterprise,  and  the  manlier  in  aspect 
and  in  character,  was  allotted  whatever  object  was  of  real  trust  or  im- 
portance. Gerald  it  was  who,  under  pretence  of  pursuing  his  accus- 
tomed sports,  conferred  with  the  various  agents  of  intrigue  who  from 
time  to  time  visited  our  coast  ;  and  to  me  the  Abbe  gave  words  of 
endearment  and  affected  the  language  of  more  entire  trust.  "  What- 
ever," he  would  say,  "  in  our  present  half  mellowed  projects,  is  ex])osed 
to  danger,  but  does  not  promise  reward,  I  entrust  to  Gerald  ;  hereafter, 
far  higher  employment,  under  far  safer  and  surer  auspices,  will  be 
yours.  We  are  the  heads  ••  be  ours  the  nobler  occupation  to  plan  ;  and 
let  us  leave  to  inferior  natures  the  vain  and  perilous  triumph  to  execute 
what  we  design." 

All  this  I  readily  assented  to ;  for,  despite  my  acquiescence  in  Mon- 


DEVEREUX.  407 

treiiil's  wishes,  I  loved  not  enterprise,  or  rather  I  hated  whatever 
roused  nie  from  the  dreamy  and  abstracted  indolence  which  was  most 
dear  to  my  temperament.  Sometimes,  however,  with  a  <;reat  show  of 
confidence,  Montreuil  would  request  me  to  execute  some  (juiet  and  un- 
important commission ;  and  of  this  nature  was  one  I  received  while  I 
was  thus,  unknown  even  to  the  object,  steeping  my  soul  in  the  first 
intoxication  of  love.  The  plots  then  carried  on  by  certain  ecclesiastics 
I  need  not  say  extended,  in  one  linked  chain,  over  the  greater  part  of  the 
Continent.  Spain,  in  especial,  was  the  theatre  of  these  intrigues;  and 
among  the  tools  employed  in  executing  them  were  some  who,  though 
banished  from  that  country,  still,  by  the  rank  they  had  held  in  it,  car- 
ried a  certain  importance  in  their  very  names.  Foremost  of  these  was 
the  father  of  the  woman  I  loved ;  and  foremost,  in  whatever  promised 
occupation  to  a  restless  mind,  he  was  always  certain  to  be. 

Montreuil  now  commissioned  me  to  seek  out  a  certain  Barnard  (an 
underling  in  those  secret  practices  or  services,  for  which  he  afterwards 
suffered,  and  who  was  then  in  that  part  of  the  country),  and  to  com- 
municate to  him  some  messages  of  which  he  was  to  be  the  bearer  to  this 
Spaniard.  A  thouglit  flashed  upon  me  —  Montreuil's  letter  mentioned, 
accidentally,  that  the  Spaniard  had  never  hitherto  seen  Barnard :  could 
I  not  personate  the  latter,  deliver  the  messages  myself,  and  thus  win 
that  introduction  to  the  daughter  which  I  so  burningly  desired,  and 
which,  from  the  close  reserve  of  the  father's  habits,  I  might  not  other- 
wise effect?  The  plan  was  open  to  two  objections:  one,  that  I  was 
known  personally  in  the  town  in  the  environs  of  which  the  Spaniard 
lived,  and  he  might  therefore  very  soon  discover  who  I  really  was  ;  the 
other  that  I  was  not  in  possession  of  all  the  information  which  Barnard 
might  possess,  and  which  the  Spaniard  might  wish  to  learn  ;  but  these 
objections  had  not  much  weight  with  me.  To  the  first,  I  said  inly,  "  I 
will  oppose  the  most  constant  caution ;  I  will  go  always  on  foot  and 
alone ;  I  will  never  be  seen  in  the  town  itself ;  and  even  should  the 
Spaniard,  who  seems  rarely  to  stir  abroad,  and  who,  possibly,  does  not 
speak  our  language,  —  even  should  he  learn  by  accident  that  Barnard 
is  only  another  name  for  Aubrey  Devereux,  it  will  not  be  before  I  have 
gained  my  object ;  nor,  perhaps,  before  the  time  when  I  myself  may 
wish  to  acknowledge  my  identity."  To  the  second  objection  I  saw  a  yet 
more  ready  answer.  "  I  will  acquaint  Montreuil  at  once,"  I  said,  "  with 
my  intention  ;  I  will  claim  his  connivance  as  a  proof  of  his  confidence, 
and  as  an  essay  of  my  own  genius  of  intrigue."  I  did  so  ;  the  priest, 
perhaps  delighted  to  involve  me  so  deeply,  and  to  find  me  so  ardent  in 
his  project,  consented.  Fortunately,  as  I  before  said,  Barnard  was  an 
underling,  —  young,  unknown,  and  obscuj-e.  My  youth,  therefore,  was 
not  so  great  a  foe  to  my  assumed  disguise  as  it  might  otherwise  have 


408  DEVEREUX. 

been.  Montreuil  supplied  all  requisite  information.  I  tried  (for  the 
first  time,  with  a  beating  heart  and  a  tremulous  voice)  the  imposition ! 
it  succeeded ;  I  continued  it.  Yes,  Morton,  yes  !  —  pour  forth  upon 
me  your  bitterest  execration,  in  me,  in  your  brother,  in  the  brother  so 
dear  to  you,  —  in  the  brother  whom  you  imagined  so  passionless,  so 
pure,  so  sinless,  —  behold  that  Barnard,  the  lover,  the  idolatrous  lover 
—  the  foe,  the  deadly  foe,  —  of  Isora  d'  Alvarez  ! 

Here  tlie  manuscript  was  defaced  for  some  pages  by  inco- 
hereut  and  meaningless  ravings.  It  seemed  as  if  one  of  his 
dark  fits  of  frenzy  had  at  that  time  come  over  the  writer.  At 
length,  in  a  more  firm  and  clear  character  than  that  immedi- 
ately preceding  it,  the  manuscript  continued  as  follows :  — 

I  loved  her,  but  even  then  it  was  with  a  fierce  and  ominous  love 
(ominous  of  what  it  became).  Often  in  the  still  evenings,  when  we 
stood  together  watching  the  sun  set ;  when  my  tongue  trembled,  but  did 
not  dare  to  speak  ;  when  all  soft  and  sweet  thoughts  filled  the  heart  and 
glistened  in  the  eye  of  that  most  sensitive  and  fairy  being ;  when  my 
own  brow  perhaps  seemed  to  reflect  the  same  emotions,  —  feelings 
which  I  even  shuddered  to  conceive  raged  within  me.  Had  we  stood 
together  in  those  moments  upon  the  brink  of  a  precipice,  I  could  have 
wound  my  arms  around  her  and  leaped  with  her  into  the  abyss.  Every- 
thing but  one  nursed  my  passion  ;  nature,  solitude,  early  dreams,  all 
kindled  and  fed  that  fire  :  Religion  only  combated  it ;  I  knew  it  was  a 
crime  to  love  any  of  earth's  creatures  as  I  loved.  I  used  the  scourge 
and  the  fast  ;  ^  I  wept  hot,  burning  tears;  I  prayed,  and  the  intensity 
of  my  prayer  appalled  even  myself,  as  it  rose  from  my  maddened  heart, 
in  the  depth  and  stillness  of  the  lone  night :  but  the  flame  burned  higher 
and  more  scorchingly  from  the  opposition ;  nay,  it  was  the  very  knowl- 
edge that  my  love  was  criminal  that  made  it  assume  so  fearful  and  dark 
a  shape.  "  Thou  art  the  cause  of  my  downfall  from  Heaven  !  "  I  mut- 
tered, when  I  looked  upon  Isora's  calm  face :  "  thou  feelest  it  not,  and 
I  could  destroy  thee  and  myself,  —  myself  the  criminal,  thee  the  cause 
of  the  crime  !  " 

It  must  have  been  that  my  eyes  betrayed  my  feelings  that  Isora  loved 
me  not,  that  she  shrank  from  me  even  at  the  first :  why  else  should  I 
not  have  called  forth  the  same  sentiments  which  she  gave  to  you  ?     Was 

^  I  need  not  point  out  to  the  novel-reader  how  completely  the  character  of 
Aubrey  has  been  stolen  in  a  certain  celebrated  French  ri)mauoe.  But  the 
writer  I  allude  to  is  not  so  unmerciful  as  M.  de  Balzac,  who  has  pillaged  scenes 
in  "  The  Disowned  "  with  a  most  gratifying  politeness. 


DEVEREUX.  409 

not  my  form  cast  in  a  mould  as  fair  as  yours  ?  did  not  my  voice  whisper 
in  as  sweet  a  tone  ?  did  I  not  love  her  with  as  wild  a  love  ?  Why  should 
she  not  have  loved  me  ?     I  was  the  first  whom  she  beheld  :   she  would 

—  ay,  perhaps  she  would  have  loved  me,  if  you  had  not  come  and 
marred  all.  Curse  yourself,  then,  that  you  were  my  rival !  curse  yourself 
that  you  made  my  heart  as  a  furnace,  and  smote  my  brain  with  frenzy ; 
curse  —  O  sweet  Virgin,  forgive  me  !  —  I  knuw  not,  —  I  know  not  what 
my  tongue  utters  or  my  hand  traces  I 

You  came,  then,  Morton,  you  came ;  you  knew  her ;  you  loved  her ; 
she  loved  you.  1  learned  that  you  had  gained  admittance  to  the  cottage, 
and  the  moment  I  learned  it,  I  looked  on  Isora,  and  felt  my  fate,  as  by 
intuition  :  I  saw  at  once  that  she  was  prepared  to  love  you  ;  I  saw  the 
very  moment  when  that  love  kindled  from  conception  into  form  ;  I  saw 

—  and  at  that  moment  my  eyes  reeled  and  my  ears  rang  as  with  the 
sound  of  a  rushing  sea,  and  I  thought  I  felt  a  cord  snap  within  my  brain, 
which  has  never  been  united  again. 

Once  only,  after  your  introduction  to  the  cottage,  did  I  think  of  con- 
fiding to  you  my  love  and  rivalship  ;  you  remember  one  night  when  we 
met  by  the  castle  cave,  and  when  your  kindness  touched  and  softened 
me  despite  of  myself.  The  day  after  that  night  I  sought  you,  with  the 
intention  of  communicating  to  you  all ;  and  while  I  was  yet  struggling 
with  my  embarrassment  and  the  suffocating  tide  of  my  emotions,  you 
premeditated  me  by  giving  me  your  confidence.  Engrossed  by  your 
own  feelings,  you  were  not  observant  of  mind ;  and  as  you  dwelt  and 
dilated  upon  your  love  for  Isora,  all  emotions,  save  those  of  agony  and 
of  fury,  vanished  from  my  breast.  I  did  not  answer  you  then  at  any 
length,  for  I  was  too  agitated  to  trust  to  prolix  speech ;  but  by  the  next 
day  I  had  recovered  myself,  and  I  resolved,  as  far  as  I  was  able,  to  play 
the  hypocrite.  "  He  cannot  love  her  as  I  do !"  I  said ;  "  perhaps  I 
may,  without  disclosure  of  my  rivalship  and  without  sin  in  the  attempt, 
detach  him  from  her  by  reason."  Fraught  with  this  idea,  I  collected 
myself,  sought  you,  remonstrated  with  you,  represented  the  worldly  folly 
of  your  love,  and  uttered  all  that  prudence  preaches  —  in  vain,  when 
it  preaches  against  passion ! 

Let  me  be  brief.  I  saw  that  I  made  no  impression  on  you ;  I  stifled 
my  wrath  ;  I  continued  to  visit  and  watch  Isora.  I  timed  my  oppor- 
tunities well :  my  constant  knowledge  of  your  motions  allowed  me  to  do 
that ;  besides,  I  represented  to  the  Spaniard  the  necessity,  through 
political  motives,  of  concealing  myself  from  you;  hence,  we  never  en- 
countered each  other.  One  evening,  Alvarez  had  gone  out  to  meet  one 
of  his  countrymen  and  confederates.  I  found  Isora  alone,  in  the  most 
sequestered  part  of  the  garden  ;  her  loveliness,  and  her  exceeding  gen- 
tleness of  manner,  melted  me.     For  the  first  time  audibly  my  heart 


410  DEVEREUX. 

spoke  out,  and  I  told  her  of  my  idolatry.  Idolatry  !  ay,  that  is  the  only 
word,  since  it  signifies  both  worship  and  guilt !  She  heard  me  timidly, 
gently,  coldly.  She  spoke  ;  and  I  found  confirmed  from  her  own  lips 
what  my  reason  had  before  told  me,  —  that  there  was  no  hope  for  me. 
The  iron  that  entered  also  roused  my  heart.  "  Enough !  "  I  cried 
fiercely,  "  you  love  this  Morton  Devereux,  and  for  him  I  am  scorned." 
Isora  blushed  and  trembled,  and  all  my  senses  fled  from  me.  I  scarcely 
know  in  what  words  my  rage  and  my  despair  clothed  themselves ;  but  I 
know  that  I  divulged  myself  to  her ;  I  know  that  I  told  her  I  was  the 
brother,  the  rival,  the  enemy  of  the  man  she  loved,  —  I  know  that  1 
uttered  the  fiercest  and  the  wildest  menaces  and  execrations,  —  I  know 
that  my  vehemence  so  overpowered  and  terrified  her  that  her  mind  was 
scarcely  less  clouded  —  less  lost,  rather  —  than  my  own.  At  that  mo- 
ment the  sound  of  your  horse's  hoofs  was  heard.  Isora's  eyes  bright- 
ened and  her  mien  grew  firm.  "  He  comes,"  she  said,  "  and  he  will 
protect  me  !  "  "  Hark !  "  I  said,  sinking  my  voice,  and,  as  my  drawn 
sword  flashed  in  one  hand,  the  other  grasped  her  arm  with  a  savage 
force,  —  "  hark,  woman  !  "  I  said,  —  and  an  oath  of  the  blackest  fury 
accompanied  my  threats,  —  "  swear  that  you  will  never  divulge  to 
Morton  Devereux  who  is  his  real  rival,  that  you  will  never  declare  to 
him  nor  to  any,  one  else  that  the  false  Barnard  and  the  true  Aubrey 
Devereux  are  the  same,  —  swear  this,  or  I  swear  [and  I  repeated,  with 
a  solemn  vehemence,  that  dread  oath]  that  I  will  stay  here  ;  that  I  will 
confront  my  rival ;  that,  the  moment  he  beholds  me,  I  will  plunge  this 
sword  in  his  bosom ;  and  that,  before  I  perish  myself,  I  will  hasten  to 
the  town,  and  will  utter  there  a  secret  which  will  send  your  father  to 
the  gallows  :  now,  your  choice  ?  " 

Morton,  you  have  often  praised,  my  uncle  has  often  jested  at,  the 
womanish  softness  of  my  face.  There  have  been  moments  when  I  have 
seen  that  face  in  the  glass,  and  known  it  not,  but  started  in  wild  affright, 
and  fancied  that  I  beheld  a  demon ;  perhaps  in  that  moment  this  change 
was  over  it.  Slowly  Isora  gazed  upon  me  ;  slowly  blanched  into  the 
hues  of  death  grew  her  cheek  and  lip ;  slowly  that  lip  uttered  the  oath 
I  enjoined.  I  released  my  gri])e,  and  she  fell  to  the  earth  suddenly, 
and  stunned  as  if  struck  by  lightning.  I  stayed  not  to  look  on  what  I 
had  done ;  I  heard  your  step  advance ;  I  fled  by  a  path  that  led  from 
the  garden  to  the  beach ;  and  1  reached  my  home  without  retaining  a 
single  recollection  of  the  space  I  had  traversed  to  attain  it. 

Despite  the  night  I  passed  —  a  night  which  I  will  leave  you  to  imagine 
—  I  rose  the  next  morning  with  a  burning  interest  to  learn  from  you 
what  had  passed  after  my  flight,  and  with  a  power,  peculiar  to  the 
stormiest  passions,  of  an  outward  composure  while  I  listened  to  the 
recital.     I  saw  that  I  was  safe ;  and  I  heard,  with  a  joy  so  rapturous 


DEVEREUX.  411 

that  I  question  whether  even  Isora's  assent  to  my  love  would  have  given 
me  an  equal  transport,  that  she  liad  rejected  you.  I  uttered  some  advice 
to  you  commonplace  enough :  it  displeased  you,  and  we  separated. 

That  evening,  to  my  surprise,  I  was  privately  visited  by  Montreuil. 
He  had  some  designs  in  hand  which  brought  him  from  France  into  the 
neighbourhood,  but  which  made  him  desirous  of  concealment.  He  soon 
drew  from  me  my  secret;  it  is  marvellous,  indeed,  what  power  he  had 
of  penetrating,  ruling,  moulding,  my  feelings  and  my  thoughts.  He 
wished,  at  that  time,  a  communication  to  be  made  and  a  letter  to  be 
given  to  Alvarez.  1  could  not  execute  this  commission  personally ;  for 
you  had  informed  me  of  your  intention  of  watching  if  you  could  not  dis- 
cover or  meet  with  Barnard,  and  I  knew  you  were  absent  from  home  on 
that  very  purpose.  Nor  was  Montreuil  himself  desirous  of  incurring  the 
risk  of  being  seen  by  you,  —  you  over  whom,  sooner  or  later,  he  then 
trusted  to  obtain  a  power  equal  to  that  which  he  held  over  your  brothers. 
Gerald  then  was  chosen  to  execute  the  commission.     lie  did  so;  he  met 

Alvarez  for  the  first  and  only  time  on  the  beach,  by  the  town  of . 

You  saw  him,  and  imagined  you  beheld  the  real  Barnard. 

But  I  anticipate ;  for  you  did  not  inform  me  of  that  occurrence,  nor 
the  inference  you  drew  from  it,  till  afterwards.  You  returned,  however, 
after  witnessing  that  meeting,  and  for  two  days  your  passions  (passions 
which,  intense  and  fierce  as  mine,  show  that,  under  similar  circumstances, 
you  might  have  been  equally  guilty)  terminated  in  fever.  You  were  con- 
fined to  vour  bed  for  three  or  four  days  ;  meanwhile  I  took  advantage 
of  the  event.  Montreuil  suggested  a  plans  which  I  readily  embraced. 
1  sought  the  Spaniard,  and  told  him  in  confidence  that  you  were  a  suitor 
—  but  a  suitor  upon  the  most  dishonourable  terms  —  to  his  daughter.  I 
told  him.  moreover,  that  you  had  detected  his  schemes,  and,  in  order  to 
deprive  Isora  of  protection  and  abate  any  obstacles  arising  from  her 
pride,  meant  to  betray  him  to  the  Government.  I  told  him  that  his  best 
and  most  prudent,  nay,  his  only  chance  of  safety  for  Isora  and  himself 
was  to  leave  his  present  home  and  take  refuge  in  the  vast  mazes  of  the 
metropolis.  I  told  him  not  to  betray  to  you  his  knowledge  of  your  crim- 
inal intentions,  lest  it  might  needlessly  exasperate  you.  I  furnished  him 
wherewithal  to  repay  you  the  sum  which  you  had  lent  him,  and  by 
which  you  had  commenced  his  acquaintance ;  and  I  dictated  to  him  the 
very  terms  of  the  note  in  which  the  sum  was  to  be  inclosed.  After  this 
I  felt  happy.  You  were  separated  from  Isora:  she  might  forget  you; 
you  might  forget  her.  I  was  possessed  of  the  secret  of  her  father's  pres- 
ent retreat :  I  mizht  seek  it  at  my  pleasure,  and  ultimately  —  so  hope 
whispered  —  prosper  in  ray  love. 

Some  time  afterwards  you  mentioned  your  suspicions  of  Gerald ;  I  did 
not  corroborate,  but  I  did  not  seek  to  destroy  them.     "  They  already 


412  DEVEREUX. 

hate  each  other,"  I  said;  "can  the  hate  be  greater?  meanwhile,  let  it 
divert  suspicion  from  me !  "  Gerald  knew  of  the  agency  of  the  real 
Barnard,  though  he  did  not  know  that  I  had  assumed  the  name  of  that 
person.  When  you  taxed  him  with  his  knowledge  of  the  man,  he  was 
naturally  confused.  You  interpreted  that  confusion  into  the  fact  of 
being  your  rival,  while  in  truth  it  arose  from  his  belief  that  you  had 
possessed  yourself  of  his  political  schemes.  Montreuil,  who  had  lurked 
chiefly  in  the  islet  opposite  "  the  Castle  Cave,"  had  returned  to  France 
on  the  same  day  that  Alvarez  repaired  to  London.  Previous  to  this,  we 
had  held  some  conferences  together  upon  my  love.  At  first  he  had 
opposed  and  reasoned  with  it ;  but,  startled  and  astonished  by  the  inten- 
sity with  which  it  possessed  me,  he  gave  way  to  my  vehemence  at  last. 
I  have  said  that  I  had  adopted  his  advice  in  one  instance.  The  fact  of 
having  received  his  advice,  —  the  advice  of  one  so  pious,  so  free  from 
human  passion,  so  devoted  to  one  object,  which  apjjeared  to  him  the 
cause  of  Religion ;  advice,  too,  in  a  love  so  fiery  and  overwhelming,  — 
that  fact  made  me  think  myself  less  criminal  than  I  had  done  before. 
He  advised  me  yet  further.  "Do  not  seek  Isora,"  he  said,  "till  some 
time  has  elapsed  ;  till  her  new-born  love  for  your  brother  has  died  away ; 
till  the  impression  of  fear  you  have  caused  in  her  is  somewhat  effaced; 
till  time  and  absence,  too,  have  done  their  work  in  the  mind  of  Morton, 
and  you  will  no  longer  have  for  your  rival  one  who  is  not  only  a  brother, 
but  a  man  of  a  fierce,  resolute,  and  unrelenting  temper." 

I  yielded  to  this  advice :  partly  because  it  promised  so  fair ;  partly 
because  I  was  not  systematically  vicious,  and  I  wished,  if  possible,  to  do 
away  with  our  rivalship ;  and  principally,  because  I  knew,  in  the  mean- 
while, that  if  I  was  deprived  of  her  presence,  so  also  were  you;  and 
jealousy  with  me  was  a  far  more  intolerable  and  engrossing  passion  than 
the  very  love  from  which  it  sprang.  So  time  passed  on :  you  affected 
to  have  conquered  your  attachment;  you  affected  to  take  pleasure  in 
levity  and  the  idlest  pursuits  of  worldly  men.  I  saw  deeper  into  your 
heart,  for  the  moment  I  entertained  the  passion  of  love  in  my  own 
breast,  my  eyes  became  gifted  with  a  second  vision  to  penetrate  the 
most  mysterious  and  hoarded  secrets  in  the  love  of  others. 

Two  circumstances  of  importance  happened  before  you  left  Devereux 
Court  for  London ;  the  one  was  the  introduction  to  your  service  of  Jean 
Desmarais,  the  second  was  your  breach  with  Montreuil.  I  speak  now 
of  the  first.  A  very  early  friend  did  the  priest  possess,  born  in  tiie 
same  village  as  himself  and  in  the  same  rank  of  life ;  he  had  received  a 
good  education  and  possessed  natural  genius.  At  a  time  when,  from 
some  fraud  in  a  situation  of  trust  wliich  he  had  held  in  a  French  noble- 
man's family,  he  was  in  destitute  and  desperate  circumstances,  it  occurred 
to  Montreuil  to  provide  for  him  by  placing  him  in  our  family.     Some 


DEVEREUX.  413 

accidental  and  frivolous  remark  of  yours  which  I  had  repeated  in  my 
correspondence  with  INIontreuil  as  illustrative  of  your  manner,  and  your 
affected  pursuits  at  that  time,  presented  an  opportunity  to  a  jilan  before 
conceived.  Desmarais  came  to  England  in  a  smuggler's  vessel,  pre- 
sented himself  to  you  as  a  servant,  and  was  accepted.  In  this  plan  Mon- 
treuil  had  two  views  :  first,  that  of  securing  Desmarais  a  place  in  England, 
tolerably  profitable  to  himself  and  convenient  for  any  plot  or  scheme 
which  Montreuil  might  require  of  him  in  this  country;  secondly,  that 
of  setting  a  peri)etual  and  most  adroit  spy  upon  all  your  motions. 

As  to  the  second  occurrence  to  which  I  have  referred ;  namely,  your 
breach  with  Montreuil  —  " 

Here  Aubrey,  with  the  same  terrible  distinctness  which 
had  characterized  his  previous  details  and  which  shed  a  double 
horror  over  the  contrast  of  the  darker  and  more  frantic  pas- 
sages in  the  manuscript,  related  what  the  reader  will  remem- 
ber Oswald  had  narrated  before,  respecting  the  letter  he  had 
brought  from  Madame  de  Balzac.  It  seems  that  ^Montreuil's 
abrupt  appearance  in  the  hall  had  been  caused  by  Desmarais, 
who  had  recognized  Oswald,  on  his  dismounting  at  the  gate, 
and  had  previously  known  that  he  was  in  the  employment  of 
the  Jansenistical  intriguante  Madame  de  Balzac. 

Aubrey  proceeded  then  to  say  that  Montreuil,  invested  with 
far  more  direct  authority  and  power  than  he  had  been  hitherto 
in  the  projects  of  that  wise  order  whose  doctrines  he  had  so 
darkly  perverted,  repaired  to  London ;  and  that,  soon  after  my 
departure  for  the  same  place,  Gerald  and  Aubrey  left  Devereux 
Court  in  company  with  each  other;  but  Gerald,  whom  very 
trifling  things  diverted  from  any  project,  however  important, 
returned  to  Devereux  Court  to  accomplish  the  prosecution  of 
some  rustic  amovr,  without  even  reaching  London.  Aubrey, 
on  the  contrary,  had  proceeded  to  the  metropolis,  sought  the 
suburb  in  which  Alvarez  lived,  procured,  in  order  to  avoid  any 
probable  chance  of  meeting  me,  a  lodging  in  the  same  obscure 
quarter,  and  had  renewed  his  suit  to  Isora.  The  reader  is  al- 
ready in  possession  of  the  ill  success  which  attended  it.  Au- 
brey had  at  last  confessed  his  real  name  to  the  father.  The 
Spaniard  was  dazzled  by  the  prospect  of  so  honourable  an  alli- 
ance for  his  daughter.     From  both  came  Isora 's  persecution, 


414  DEVEREUX. 

but  in  both  was  it  resisted.  Passing  over  passages  in  the  man- 
uscript of  the  most  stormy  incoherence  and  the  most  gloomy 
passion,  I  come  to  what  follows  — 

I  learned  then  from  Desmarais  that  you  had  taken  away  her  and  the 
dying  father,  that  you  had  placed  them  in  a  safe  and  honourable  home. 
That  man,  so  imi)lieitly  the  creature  of  Montreuil,  or  rather  of  his  own 
interest,  with  which  Montreuil  was  identified,  was  easily  induced  to 
betray  you  also  to  me,  —  me  whom  he  imagined,  moreover,  utterly  the 
tool  of  the  priest,  and  of  whose  torturing  interest  in  this  peculiar  dis- 
closure he  was  not  at  that  time  aware.  1  visited  Isora  in  her  new  abode, 
and  again  and  again  she  trembled  beneath  my  rage.  Then,  for  the 
second  time,  I  attempted  force.  Ha!  ha!  Morton,  I  think  1  see  you 
now  !  —  I  think  I  hear  your  muttered  curse !  Curse  on  1  "\Mien  you 
read  this  I  shall  be  beyond  your  vengeance,  beyond  human  power.  And 
yet  I  think  if  I  were  mere  clay ;  if  I  were  the  mere  senseless  heap  of 
ashes  that  the  grave  covers ;  if  I  were  not  the  thing  that  must  live  for- 
ever and  forever,  far  away  in  unimagined  worlds,  where  nought  that  has 
earth's  life  can  come,  —  I  should  tremble  beneath  the  sod  as  your  foot 
pressed  and  your  execration  rang  over  it.  A  second  time  I  attempted 
force ;  a  second  time  I  was  repulsed  by  the  same  means,  —  by  a  woman's 
hand  and  a  woman's  dagger.  But  I  knew  that  I  had  one  hold  over 
Isora  from  which,  while  she  loved  you,  I  could  never  be  driven  :  I  linew 
that  by  threatening  your  life,  I  could  command  her  will  and  terrify  her 
into  compliance  with  my  own.  I  made  her  reiterate  her  vow  of  conceal- 
ment ;  and  I  discovered,  by  some  words  dropping  from  her  fear,  that  she 
believed  you  already  suspected  me,  and  had  been  withheld  by  her  entrea- 
ties from  seeking  me  out.  I  questioned  her  more,  and  soon  perceived  that 
it  was  (as  indee'd  I  knew  before)  Gerald  whom  you  suspected,  not  me ; 
but  I  did  not  tell  this  to  Isora.  I  suffered  her  to  cherish  a  mistake  profit- 
able to  my  disguise ;  but  I  saw  at  once  that  it  might  betray  me,  if  you  ever 
met  and  conferred  at  length  with  Gerald  upon  this  point,  and  I  exacted 
from  Isora  a  pledge  that  she  would  effectually  and  forever  bind  you  not 
to  breathe  a  single  suspicion  to  him.  When  I  had  left  the  room,  I  re- 
turned once  more  to  warn  her  against  uniting  herself  with  you.  "Wretch, 
selfish,  accursed  wretch  that  you  were,  why  did  you  suffer  her  to  trans- 
gress that  warning  ? 

I  fled  from  the  house,  as  a  fiend  flies  from  a  being  whom  he  has  pos- 
sessed.  I  returned  at  night  to  look  up  at  the  window,  and  linger  by  the 
door,  and  keep  watch  beside  the  home  which  held  Isora.  Such,  in  her 
former  abode,  had  been  my  nightly  wont.  I  had  no  evil  thought  nor 
foul  intent  in  this  customary  vigil, —no,  not  one!     Strangely  enough, 


DEVEREUX.  415 

with  the  tempestuous  and  overwhelming  emotions  which  constituted  the 
greater  part  of  my  love  was  mingled  —  though  subdued  and  latent  —  a 
stream  of  the  softest,  yea,  I  might  add  almost  of  the  holiest  tenderness. 
Often  after  one  of  those  outpourings  of  rage  and  menace  and  despair,  I 
would  flv  to  some  quiet  spot  and  weep  till  all  the  hardness  of  my  heart 
was  wept  away.  And  often  in  those  nightly  vigils  I  would  pause  by  the 
door  and  murmur,  "  This  shelter,  denied  not  to  the  beggar  and  the 
bc"-o-ar's  child,  this  would  you  deny  to  me  if  you  could  dream  that  I  was 
so  near  vou.  And  yet,  had  you  loved  me,  instead  of  lavishing  upon  me 
all  your'hatred  and  your  contempt,  —  had  you  loved  me,  I  would  have 
served  and  worshipped  you  as  man  knows  not  worship  or  service.  You 
shudder  at  my  vehemence  now  :  I  could  not  then  have  breathed  a  whis- 
per to  wound  you.  You  tremble  now  at  the  fierceness  of  my  breast : 
you  would  then  rather  have  marvelled  at  its  softness." 

I  was  already  at  my  old  watch  when  you  encountered  me  :  you  ad- 
dressed me ;  I  answered  not ;  you  approached  me,  and  I  fled.  Fled : 
there  —  there  was  the  shame,  and  the  sting  of  my  sentiments  towards 
you.  I  am  not  naturally  afraid  of  danger,  though  my  nerves  are  some- 
times weak  and  have  sometimes  shrunk  from  it.  I  have  known  some- 
thino-  of  peril  in  late  years  when  my  frame  has  been  bowed  and  broken 

perils  by  storms  at  sea,  and  the  knives  of  robbers  upon  land  —  and  I 

have  looked  upon  it  with  a  quiet  eye.  But  you,  Morton  Devereux,  you 
I  always  feared.  I  had  seen  from  your  childhood  others  whose  nature 
was  far  stronger  than  mine  yield  and  recoil  ^t  yours ;  I  had  seen  the 
giant  and  bold  strength  of  Gerald  quail  before  your  bent  brow ;  I  had 
seen  even  the  hardy  pride  of  ^lontreuil  baffled  by  your  curled  lip  and 
the  stern  sarcasm  of  your  glance ;  I  had  seen  you,  too,  in  your  wild 
moments  of  ungoverned  rage,  and  I  knew  that  if  earth  held  one  whose 
passions  were  fiercer  than  my  own  it  was  you.  But  your  passions  were 
sustained  even  in  their  fiercest  excess  ;  your  passions  were  the  mere 
weapons  of  your  mind :  my  passions  were  the  torturers  and  the  tyrants 
of  mine.  Your  passions  seconded  your  will ;  mine  blinded  and  over- 
whelmed it.  From  my  infancy,  even  while  I  loved  you  most,  you  awed 
me  ;  and  years,  in  deepening  the  impression,  had  made  it  indelible.  I 
could  not  confront  the  thought  of  your  knowing  all,  and  of  mectin!r  you 
after  that  knowledge.  And  this  fear,  while  it  unnerved  me  at  some 
moments,  at  others  only  maddened  my  ferocity  the  more  by  the  stings 
of  shame  and  self-contempt. 

I  fled  from  you :  you  pursued ;  you  gained  upon  me ;  you  remember 
how  I  was  preserved.  I  dashed  throucrh  the  inebriated  revellers  who 
obstructed  your  path,  and  reached  my  own  lodiina.  which  was  close  at 
hand ;  for  the  same  day  on  which  I  learned  Isora's  change  of  residence 
I  changed  my  own  in  order  to  be  near  it.     Did  I  feel  joy  for  my  escape? 


416  DEVEREUX. 

No  :  I  could  have  gnawed  the  very  flesh  from  my  bones  in  the  agony  of 
my  shame.  "  I  could  brave,"  I  said,  "  I  could  threat,  I  could  offer 
violence  to  the  woman  who  rejected  me,  and  yet  I  could  not  face  the 
rival  for  whom  I  am  scorned  !  "  At  that  moment  a  resolution  flashed 
across  my  mind,  exactly  as  if  a  train  of  living  fire  had  been  driven  before 
it.  Morton,  I  resolved  to  murder  you,  and  in  that  very  hour  !  A  pistol 
lay  on  my  table ;  I  took  it,  concealed  it  about  my  person,  and  repaired 
to  the  shelter  of  a  large  portico,  beside  which  I  knew  that  you  must  pass 
to  your  own  home  in  the  same  street.  Scarcely  three  minutes  had 
elapsed  between  the  reaching  my  house  and  the  leaving  it  on  this 
errand.  I  knew,  for  I  had  heard  swords  clash,  that  you  would  be 
detained  some  time  in  the  street  by  the  rioters ;  I  thought  it  probable 
also  that  you  might  still  continue  the  search  for  me ;  and  I  knew  even 
that,  had  you  hastened  at  once  to  your  home,  you  could  scarcely  have 
reached  it  before  I  reached  my  shelter.  I  hurried  on  ;  I  arrived  at  the 
spot;  I  screened  myself  and  awaited  your  coming.  You  came,  borne 
in  the  arms  of  two  men  ;  others  followed  in  the  rear ;  I  saw  your  face 
destitute  of  the  hue  and  aspect  of  life,  and  your  clothes  streaming  with 
blood.  I  was  horror-stricken.  1  joined  the  crowd  ;  I  learned  that  you 
had  been  stabbed,  and  it  was  feared  mortally. 

I  did  not  return  home:  no,  I  went  into  the  fields,  and  lay  out  all 
night,  and  lifted  up  my  heart  to  God,  and  wept  aloud,  and  peace  fell 
upon  me,  —  at  least,  what  was  peace  compared  to  the  tempestuous  dark- 
ness which  had  before  reigned  in  my  breast.  The  sight  of  you,  bleeding 
and  insensible,  —  you,  against  whom  I  had  harboured  a  fratricide's  pur- 
pose, —  had  stricken,  as  it  were,  the  weapon  from  my  hand  and  the 
madness  from  my  mind.  I  shuddered  at  what  T  had  escaped ;  I  blessed 
God  for  my  deliverance  ;  and  with  the  gratitude  and  the  awe  came 
repentance ;  and  repentance  brnuTht  a  resolution  to  fly,  since  T  could 
not  wrestle  with  my  mighty  and  dread  temptation  :  the  moment  that 
resolution  was  formed,  it  was  as  if  an  incubus  were  taken  from  my 
breast.  Even  the  next  morning  I  did  not  return  home:  my  anxiety  for 
you  was  such  that  I  forgot  all  caution ;  I  went  to  your  house  myself ;  I 
saw  one  of  your  servants  to  whom  T  was  person.ally  unknown.  I  in- 
quired respecting  you,  and  learned  that  your  wound  had  not  been  mor- 
tal, and  that  the  servant  had  overheard  one  of  the  medical  attendants 
say  you  were  not  even  in  danger. 

At  this  news  I  felt  the  serpent  stir  again  within  me,  but  I  resolved  to 
crush  it  at  the  first:  I  would  not  even  expose  myself  to  the  temptation 
of  passincT  by  Tsora's  house;  T  went  straight  in  search  of  my  horse;  I 
mounted,  and  fled  resolutely  from  the  scene  of  my  soul's  peril.  "  I  will 
go,"  I  said,  "  to  the  home  of  our  childhood  ;  I  will  surround  myself  by 
the  mute  tokens  of  the  early  love  which  my  brother  bore  me ;  I  will 


DEVEREUX.  417 

think,  —  wJiilo  penance  and  prayer  cleanse  ray  soul  from  its  black  guilt, 
I  will  think  that  I  am  also  makinjf  a  sacrifice  to  that  brother." 

I  returned  then  to  Devereux  Court,  and  I  resolved  to  forego  all  hope 
—  all  persecution  —  of  Isoral  My  brother  —  my  brother,  my  heart 
yearns  to  you  at  this  moment,  even  though  years  and  distance,  and, 
above  all,  my  own  crimes,  place  a  gulf  between  us  which  I  may  never 
pass ;  it  yearns  to  you  when  I  think  of  those  quiet  shades,  and  the 
scenes  where,  pure  and  unsullied,  we  wandered  together,  when  life  was 
all  verdure  and  freshness,  and  we  dreamed  not  of  what  was  to  come !  If 
even  now  my  heart  yearns  to  you,  Morton,  when  I  think  of  that  home 
and  those  days,  believe  that  it  had  some  softness  and  some  mercy  for 
you  then.  Yes,  I  repeat,  I  resolved  to  subdue  my  own  emotions,  and 
interpose  no  longer  between  Isora  and  yourself.  Full  of  this  determina- 
tion, and  utterly  melted  towards  you,  I  wrote  you  a  long  letter ;  such  as 
we  would  have  written  to  each  other  in  our  first  youth.  Two  days  after 
that  letter  all  my  new  purposes  were  swept  away,  and  the  whole  soil  of 
evil  thoughts  which  they  had  covered,  not  destroyed,  rose  again  as  the 
tide  flowed  from  it,  black  and  rugged  as  before. 

The  very  night  on  which  I  had  writ  that  letter,  came  IMontreuil 
secretly  to  my  chamber.  He  had  been  accustomed  to  visit  Gerald  by 
stealth  and  at  sudden  moments ;  and  there  was  something  almost  super- 
natural in  the  manner  in  which  he  seemed  to  pass  from  place  to  place, 
unmolested  and  unseen.  He  had  now  conceived  a  villanous  project ; 
and  he  had  visited  Devereux  Court  in  order  to  ascertain  the  likelihood 
of  its  success ;  he  there  found  that  it  was  necessary  to  involve  me  in  his 
scheme.  IMy  uncle's  physician  had  said  privately  that  Sir  William 
could  not  live  many  months  longer.  Either  from  Gerald  or  my  mother 
Montreuil  learned  this  fact ;  and  he  was  resolved,  if  possible,  that  the 
family  estates  should  not  glide  from  all  chance  of  his  influence  over  them 
into  your  possession.  Montreuil  was  literally  as  poor  as  the  rigid  law 
of  his  order  enjoins  its  disciples  to  be ;  all  his  schemes  required  the  dis- 
posal of  large  sums,  and  in  no  private  source  could  he  hope  for  such 
pecuniary  power  as  he  was  likely  to  find  in  the  coffers  of  any  member 
of  our  family,  yourself  only  excepted.  It  was  this  man's  boast  to  want, 
and  yet  to  command,  all  things  ;  and  he  was  now  determined  that  if  any 
craft,  resolution,  or  guilt  could  occasion  the  transfer  of  my  uncle's  wealth 
from  you  to  Gerald  or  to  myself,  it  should  not  be  wanting. 

Now,  then,  he  found  the  advantage  of  the  dissensions  with  each  othei 
which  he  had  cither  sown  or  mellowed  in  our  breasts.  He  came  to  turn 
those  wrathful  thoughts  which  when  he  last  saw  me  I  had  expressed 
towards  you  to  the  favor  and  success  of  his  design.  He  found  my  mind 
strangely  altered,  but  he  affected  to  applaud  the  change.  He  ques- 
tioned me  respecting  my  uncle's  health,  and  I  told  him  what  had  really 

27 


418  DEVEREUX. 

occurred  ;  namely,  that  my  uncle  had  on  the  preceding  day  read  over  to 
me  some  part  of  a  will  which  lie  had  just  made,  and  in  which  the  vast 
bulk  of  his  property  was  bequeathed  to  you.  At  this  news  Montreuil 
must  have  perceived  at  once  the  necessity  of  winning  my  consent  to  his 
project ;  for,  since  I  had  seen  the  actual  testament,  no  fraudulent  trans- 
fer of  the  property  therein  bequeathed  could  take  place  without  my 
knowledge  that  some  fraud  had  been  recurred  to.  Montreuil  knew  me 
well;  he  knew  that  avarice,  that  pleasure,  that  ambition,  were  powerless 
words  with  me,  producing  no  effect  and  affording  no  temptation:  but  he 
knew  that  passion,  jealousy,  spiritual  terrors,  were  the  springs  that 
moved  every  part  and  nerve  of  my  moral  being.  The  two  former,  then, 
he  now  put  into  action  ;  the  last  he  held  back  in  reserve.  He  spoke  to 
me  no  further  upon  the  subject  he  had  then  at  heart ;  not  a  word 
further  on  the  disposition  of  the  estates  :  he  spoke  to  me  only  of  Isora 
and  of  you ;  he  aroused,  by  hint  and  insinuation,  the  new  sleep  into 
which  all  those  emotions  —  the  furies  of  the  heart  —  had  been  for  a 
moment  lulled.  He  told  me  he  had  lately  seen  Isora ;  he  dwelt  glow- 
ingly on  her  beauty ;  he  commended  my  heroism  in  resigning  her  to  a 
brother  whose  love  for  her  was  little  in  comparison  to  mine,  who  had, 
in  reality,  never  loved  vie,  —  whose  jests  and  irony  had  been  levelled  no 
less  at  myself  than  at  others.  He  painted  your  person  and  your  mind, 
in  contrast  to  my  own,  in  colors  so  covertly  depreciating  as  to  irritate 
more  and  more  that  vanity  with  which  jealousy  is  so  woven,  and  from 
which,  perhaps  (a  Titan  son  of  so  feeble  a  parent),  it  is  born.  He  hung 
lingeringly  over  all  the  treasure  that  you  would  enjoy  and  that  I  —  T, 
the  first  discoverer,  had  so  nobly  and  so  generously  relinquished. 

"  Relinquished  !  "  I  cried,  "  no,  I  was  driven  from  it ;  I  left  it  not  while 
a  hope  of  possessing  it  remained."  The  priest  affected  astonishment. 
"  How  !  was  I  sure  of  that  ?  I  had,  it  is  true,  wooed  Isora  ;  but  would 
she,  even  if  she  had  felt  no  preference  for  Morton,  would  she  have 
surrendered  the  heir  to  a  princely  wealth  for  the  humble  love  of  the 
younger  son  ?  I  did  not  know  women  :  with  them  all  love  was  either 
wantonness,  custom,  or  pride  ;  it  was  the  last  principle  that  swayed 
Isora.  Had  I  sought  to  enlist  it  on  my  side?  Xot  at  all.  Again,  I 
had  only  striven  to  detach  Isora  from  Morton ;  had  I  ever  attempted 
the  much  easier  task  of  detaching  ^lorton  from  Isora  ?  Xo,  never ;  " 
and  Montreuil  repeated  his  panegyric  on  my  generous  surrender  of  my 
rights.  I  interrupted  him  ;  "  I  had  not  surrendered  :  I  never  would 
surrender  while  a  hope  remained.  But,  where  was  that  hope,  and  how 
was  it  to  be  realized?"  After  much  artful  prelude,  the  priest  ex- 
plained. He  proposed  to  use  every  means  to  array  against  your  union 
with  Isora  all  motives  of  ambition,  interest,  and  aggrandizement.  "  I 
know  ^lorton's  character,"  said  he,  "  to  its  very  depths.     His  chief  vir- 


DEVEREUX.  419 

tue  is  honour ;  liis  chief  principle  is  ambition.  He  will  not  attempt  to 
win  this  girl  otherwise  than  by  marria<5e  ;  for  the  very  reasons  that 
would  induce  most  men  to  attempt  it,  namely,  her  unfriended  state,  her 
poverty,  her  confidence  in  him,  and  her  love,  or  that  semblance  of  love 
which  he  believes  to  be  the  passion  itself.  This  virtue,  —  I  call  it  so, 
though  it  is  none,  for  there  is  no  virtue  out  of  religion,  —  this  virtue, 
then,  will  place  before  him  only  two  plans  of  conduct,  either  to  marry 
her  or  to  forsake  her.  Now,  then,  if  we  can  bring  his  ambition,  that 
great  lever  of  his  conduct,  in  opposition  to  the  first  alternative,  only  the 
last  remains  :  I  say  that  we  can  employ  that  engine  in  your  behalf ; 
leave  it  to  me,  and  I  will  do  so.  Then,  Aubrey,  in  the  moment  of  her 
pique,  her  resentment,  her  outraged  vanity,  at  being  thus  left,  you  shall 
appear ;  not  as  you  have  hitherto  done  in  menace  and  terror,  but  soft, 
subdued,  with  looks  all  love,  with  vows  all  penitence;  vindicating  all 
your  past  vehemence  by  the  excess  of  your  passion,  and  promising  all 
future  tenderness  by  the  intluenee  of  the  same  motive,  the  motive  which 
to  a  woman  pardons  every  error  and  hallows  every  crime.  Then  will 
she  contrast  your  love  with  your  brother's  :  then  will  the  scale  fall  from 
her  eyes  ;  then  will  she  see  what  hitherto  she  has  been  blinded  to,  that 
your  brother,  to  yourself,  is  a  satyr  to  Hyperion;  then  will  she  blush 
and  falter,  and  hide  her  cheek  in  your  bosom."  "  Hold,  hold  !  "  I  cried : 
"  do  with  me  what  you  will ;  counsel,  and  I  will  act !  " 

Here  again  tlie  manuscript  was  defaced  by  a  sudden  burst 
of  execration  upon  Montreuil,  followed  hj  ravings  that  grad- 
ually blackened  into  the  most  gloomy  and  incoherent  out- 
pourings of  madness;    at  length  the  history  proceeded. 

You  wrote  to  ask  me  to  sound  our  uncle  on  the  subject  of  your  in- 
tended marriage.  Montreuil  drew  up  my  answer;  and  I  constrained 
myself,  despite  my  revived  hatred  to  you,  to  transcribe  its  expressions 
of  affection.  ]\Iy  uncle  wrote  to  you  also;  and  we  strengthened  his  dis- 
like to  the  step  you  had  proposed,  by  hints  from  myself  disrespectful  to 
Tsora,  and  an  anonymous  communication  dated  from  London  and  to 
the  same  purport.  All  this  while  I  knew  not  that  Isora  had  been  in 
your  house ;  your  answer  to  my  letter  seemed  to  imply  that  you  would 
not  disobey  my  uncle.  INIontreuil,  who  was  still  lurking  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood and  who  at  night  privately  met  or  sought  me,  affected  exulta- 
tion at  the  incipient  success  of  his  advice.  He  pretended  to  receive 
perpetual  intelligence  of  your  motions  and  conduct,  and  he  informed  me 
now  that  Tsora  had  come  to  your  house  on  hearing  of  your  wound  ;  that 
you  had  not  (agreeably,  ^lontreuil  added  to  his  view  of  your  character) 
taken  advantage  of  her  indiscretion  ;  that  immediately  on  receiving  your 


420  DEVEREUX, 

uncle's  and  my  own  letters,  you  bad  separated  yourself  from  her ;  and, 
that  though  you  still  visited  her,  it  was  apparently  with  a  view  of  break- 
ing off  all  connection  by  gradual  and  gentle  steps ;  at  all  events,  you 
had  taken  no  measures  towards  marriage.  "  Now,  then,"  said  Mon- 
treuil,  "  for  one  finishing  stroke,  and  the  prize  is  yours.  Your  uncle 
cannot,  you  find,  live  long :  could  he  but  be  persuaded  to  leave  his 
property  to  Gerald  or  to  you,  with  only  a  trifling  legacy  (comparatively 
speaking)  to  Morton,  that  worldly-minded  and  enterprising  person 
would  be  utterly  prevented  from  marrying  a  penniless  and  unknown 
foreigner.  Nothing  but  his  own  high  prospects,  so  utterly  above  the 
necessity  of  fortune  in  a  wife,  can  excuse  such  a  measure  now,  even  to 
his  own  mind  ;  if  therefore,  we  can  effect  this  transfer  of  property,  and 
in  the  meanwhile  prevent  Morton  from  marrying,  your  rival  is  gone  for- 
ever, and  with  his  brilliant  advantages  of  wealth  will  also  vanish  his 
merits  in  the  eyes  of  Isora.  Do  not  be  startled  at  this  thought :  there 
is  no  crime  in  it ;  I,  your  confessor,  your  tutor,  the  servant  of  the 
Church,  am  the  last  person  to  counsel,  to  hint  even,  at  what  is  criminal  ; 
but  the  end  sanctifies  all  means.  By  transferring  this  vast  property, 
you  do  not  only  insure  your  object,  but  you  advance  the  great  cause  of 
Kings,  the  Church,  and  of  the  Religion  which  presides  over  both. 
Wealth,  in  Morton's  possession,  will  be  useless  to  this  cause,  perhaps 
pernicious  :  in  your  hands  or  in  Gerald's,  it  will  be  of  inestimable  ser- 
vice. Wealth  produced  from  the  public  should  be  applied  to  the  uses 
of  the  public,  yea,  even  though  a  petty  injury  to  one  individual  be  the 
price." 

Thus,  and  in  this  manner,  did  Montreuil  prepare  my  mind  for  the 
step  he  meditated ;  but  I  was  not  yet  ripe  for  it.  So  inconsistent  is 
guilt,  that  I  could  commit  murder,  wrong,  almost  all  villany  that  passion 
dictated,  but  I  was  struck  aghast  by  the  thought  of  fraud.  Montreuil 
perceived  that  I  was  not  yet  wholly  his,  and  his  next  plan  was  to  remove 
me  from  a  spot  where  I  might  check  his  measures.  He  persuaded  me 
to  travel  for  a  few  weeks.  "  On  your  return,''  said  he,  "  consider  Isora 
yours ;  meanwhile,  let  change  of  scene  beguile  suspense."  I  was  passive 
in  his  hands,  and  I  went  whither  he  directed. 

Let  me  be  brief  here  on  the  black  fraud  that  ensued.  Among  the 
other  arts  of  Jean  Desmarais,  was  that  of  copying  exactly  any  hand- 
writing. He  was  then  in  London,  in  your  service  :  Montreuil  sent  for 
him  to  come  to  the  neighbourhood  of  Devereux  Court.  ^Meanwhile,  the 
priest  had  procured  from  the  notary  who  had  drawn  up,  and  who  now 
possessed,  the  will  of  my  unsuspecting  uncle,  that  document.  The 
notary  had  been  long  known  to,  and  sometimes  politically  employed  by, 
Montreuil,  for  he  was  half-brother  to  that  Oswald,  whom  I  have  before 
mentioned  as  the  early  comrade  of  the  priest  and  Desmarais.     This 


DEVEREUX.  421 

circumstance,  it  is  probable,  first  induced  Montreuil  to  contemplate  the 
plan  of  a  substituted  will.  Before  Desmarais  arrived,  in  order  to  copy 
those  parts  of  the  will  which  my  uncle's  humour  had  led  him  to  write  in 
his  own  hand,  you,  alarmed  by  a  letter  from  my  uncle,  came  to  the 
Court,  and  on  the  same  day  Sir  William  (taken  ill  the  preceding  even- 
ing) died.  Between  that  day  and  the  one  on  which  the  funeral  occurred 
the  will  was  copied  by  Desmarais ;  only  Gerald's  name  was  substituted 
for  yours,  and  the  forty  thousand  pounds  left  to  him  —  a  sum  equal  to  that 
bestowed  on  myself  —  was  cut  down  into  a  legacy  of  twenty  thousand 
pounds  to  you.  Less  than  this  Montreuil  dared  not  insert  as  the  be- 
quest to  you :  and  it  is  possible  that  the  same  regard  to  probabilities 
prevented  all  mention  of  himself  in  the  substituted  will.  This  was  all 
the  alteration  made.  My  uncle's  writing  was  copied  exactly ;  and,  save 
the  departure  from  his  apparent  intentions  in  your  favour,  I  believe  not 
a  particle  in  the  effected  fraud  was  calculated  to  excite  suspicion. 
Immediately  on  the  reading  of  the  will,  Montreuil  repaired  to  me  and 
confessed  what  had  taken  place. 

"  Aubrey,"  he  said,  "  I  have  done  this  for  your  sake  partly ;  but  I 
have  had  a  much  higher  end  in  view  than  even  your  happiness  or  my 
affectionate  wishes  to  promote  it.  I  live  solely  for  one  object,  —  the 
aggrandizement  of  that  holy  order  to  which  I  belong ;  the  schemes  of 
that  order  are  devoted  only  to  the  interests  of  Heaven,  and  by  serving 
them  I  serve  Heaven  itself.  Aubrey,  child  of  my  adoption  and  of  my 
earthly  hopes,  those  schemes  require  carnal  instruments,  and  work,  even 
through  Mammon,  unto  the  goal  of  righteousness.  What  I  have  done  ia 
just  before  God  and  man.  I  have  wrested  a  weapon  from  the  hand  of 
an  enemy,  and  placed  it  in  the  hand  of  an  ally.  I  have  not  touched  one 
atom  of  this  wealth,  though,  with  the  same  ease  with  which  I  have  trans- 
ferred it  from  Morton  to  Gerald,  I  might  have  made  my  own  private 
fortune.  I  have  not  touched  one  atom  of  it;  nor  for  you,  whom  I  love 
more  than  any  living  being,  have  I  done  what  my  heart  dictated.  I 
might  have  caused  the  inheritance  to  pass  to  you.  I  have  not  done  so. 
Why?  Because  then  I  should  have  consulted  a  selfish  desire  at  the 
expense  of  the  interests  of  mankind.  Gerald  is  fitter  to  be  the  tool  those 
interests  rec^uire  than  you  are.  Gerald  I  have  made  that  tool.  You, 
too,  I  have  spared  the  pangs  which  your  conscience,  so  peculiarly,  so 
morbidly  acute,  might  suffer  at  being  selected  as  the  instrument  of  a 
seeming  wrong  to  Morton.  All  required  of  you  is  silence.  If  your 
wants  ever  ask  more  than  your  legacy,  you  have,  as  I  have,  a  claim  to 
that  wealth  which  your  pleasure  allows  Gerald  to  possess.  Meanwhile, 
let  us  secure  to  you  that  treasure  dearer  to  you  than  gold." 

If  Montreuil  did  not  quite  blind  me  by  speeches  of  this  nature,  my 
engrossing,  absorbing  passion  required  little  to  make  it  cling  to  any  hope 


422  DEVEREUX. 

of  its  fruition.  I  assented,  therefore,  though  not  without  many  previous 
struggles,  to  Montreuil's  project,  or  rather  to  its  concealment ;  nay,  I 
wrote  some  time  after,  at  his  desire  and  his  dictation,  a  letter  to  you, 
stating  feigned  reasons  for  my  uncle's  alteration  of  former  intentions, 
and  exonerating  Gerald  from  all  connivance  in  that  alteration,  or  abet- 
ment in  the  fraud  you  professed  that  it  was  your  open  belief  had  been 
committed.  This  was  due  to  Gerald ;  for  at  that  time,  and  for  aught 
I  know,  at  the  present,  he  was  perfectly  unconscious  by  what  means  he 
had  attained  his  fortune :  he  believed  that  your  love  for  Isora  had  given 
my  uncle  offence,  and  hence  your  disinheritance;  and  Montreuil  took 
effectual  care  to  exasperate  him  against  you,  by  dwelling  on  the  malice 
which  your  suspicions  and  your  proceedings  against  him  so  glaringly 
testified.  Whether  Montreuil  really  thought  you  would  give  over  all 
intention  of  marrying  Isora  upon  your  reverse  of  fortune,  which  is  likely 
enough  from  his  estimate  of  your  character ;  or  whether  he  only  wished 
by  any  means  to  obtain  my  acquiescence  in  a  measure  important  to  his 
views,  I  know  not,  but  he  never  left  me,  nor  ever  ceased  to  sustain  my 
fevered  and  unhallowed  hopes,  from  the  hour  in  which  he  first  communi- 
cated to  me  the  fraudulent  substitution  of  the  will  till  we  repaired  to- 
gether to  London.  This  we  did  not  do  so  long  as  he  could  detain  me  in 
the  country  by  assurances  that  I  should  ruin  all  by  appearing  before 
Isora  until  you  had  entirely  deserted  her. 

Morton,  hitherto  I  have  written  as  if  my  veins  were  filled  with  water, 
instead  of  the  raging  fire  that  flows  through  them  until  it  reaches  my 
brain,  and  there  it  stops,  and  eats  away  all  things,  —  even  memory,  that 
once  seemed  eternal !  Now  I  feel  as  I  approach  the  consummation  of 
—  ha  —  of  what  —  ay,  of  what  ?  Brother,  did  you  ever,  when  you  thought 
yourself  quite  alone,  at  night,  not  a  breath  stirring,  —  did  you  ever  raise 
your  eyes,  and  see  exactly  opposite  to  you  a  devil?  —  a  dread  thing,  that 
moves  not,  speaks  not,  but  glares  upon  you  with  a  fixed,  dead,  unrelent- 
ing eye  ?  —  that  thing  is  before  me  now  and  witnesses  every  word  I  write. 
But  it  deters  me  not !  no,  nor  terrifies  me.  I  have  said  that  I  would 
fulfil  this  task,  and  I  have  nearly  done  it;  though  at  times  the  gray 
cavern  yawned,  and  I  saw  its  rugged  walls  stretch  —  stretch  away,  on 
either  side,  until  they  reached  hell ;  and  there  I  beheld  —  but  I  will  not 
tell  you  till  we  meet  there  I     Now  I  am  calm  again  :  read  on. 

We  could  not  discover  Isora  nor  her  home  :  perhaps  the  priest  took 
care  that  it  should  be  so;  for,  at  that  time,  what  with  his  devilish  whis- 
pers and  my  own  heart,  I  often  scarcely  knew  what  I  was  or  what  I 
desired ;  and  I  sat  for  hours  and  gazed  upon  the  air,  and  it  seemed  so 
soft  and  still  that  I  longed  to  make  an  opening  in  my  forehead  that  it 
might  enter  there,  and  so  cool  and  quiet  the  dull,  throbbing,  scorching 
anguish  that  lay  like  molten  lead  in  my  brain ;  at  length  we  found  the 


DEVEREUX.  423 

house.  "  To-morrow,"  said  the  Abbe,  and  he  shed  tears  over  me,  —  for 
there  were  times  wlien  that  hard  man  did  feel,  —  "  to-morrow,  my  child, 
thou  shalt  see  her  ;  but  be  soft  and  calm."  To-morrow  came ;  but  Mon- 
treuil  was  pale,  paler  than  I  had  ever  seen  him,  and  he  gazed  upon  me 
and  said,  '*  Not  to-day,  Son,  not  to-day ;  she  has  gone  out,  and  w^ill  not 
return  till  nightfall."  My  brother,  the  evening  came,  and  with  it  came 
Desmarais  ;  he  came  in  terror  and  alarm.  "  The  villain  Oswald,"  he 
said,  "  has  betrayed  all ;  he  drew  me  aside  and  told  me  so.  *  Hark  ye, 
Jean,'  he  whispered,  '  hark  ye  :  your  master  has  my  brother's  written 
confession  and  the  real  will ;  but  I  have  provided  for  your  safety,  and 
if  he  pleases  it,  for  Montreuil's.  The  packet  is  not  to  be  opened  till  the 
seventh  day ;  fly  before  then.  But  I  know,"  added  Desmarais,  "  where 
the  packet  is  placed ; "  and  he  took  Montreuil  aside,  and  for  a  while  I 
heard  not  what  they  said ;  but  I  did  overhear  Desmarais  at  last,  and  I 
learned  that  it  was  your  bridal  nicjht. 

What  felt  I  then  ?  The  same  tempestuous  fury,  —  the  same  whirl- 
wind and  storm  of  heart  that  I  had  felt  before,  at  the  mere  anticipation 
of  such  an  event  ?  No ;  I  felt  a  bright  ray  of  joy  flash  through  me. 
Yes,  joy;  but  it  was  that  joy  which  a  conqueror  feels  when  he  knows 
his  mortal  foe  is  in  his  power  and  when  he  dooms  that  enemy  to  death. 
"  They  shall  perish,  and  on  this  night,"  I  said  inly.  "  I  have  sworn  it; 
I  swore  to  Isora  that  the  bridal  couch  should  be  stained  with  blood,  and 
I  will  keep  the  oath !  "  I  approached  the  pair ;  they  were  discussing 
the  means  for  obtaining  the  packet.  Montreuil  urged  Desmarais  to 
purloin  it  from  the  place  where  you  had  deposited  it,  and  then  to 
abscond;  but  to  this  plan  Desmarais  was  vehemently  opposed.  He 
insisted  that  there  would  be  no  possible  chance  of  his  escape  from  a 
search  so  scrutinizing  as  that  which  would  necessarily  ensue,  and  he  evi- 
dently resolved  not  alone  to  incur  the  danger  of  the  theft.  "  The  Count," 
said  he,  "  saw  that  I  was  present  when  he  put  away  the  packet.  Suspi- 
cion will  fall  solely  on  me.  Whither  should  I  fly?  No  :  I  will  serve  you 
with  my  talents,  but  not  with  my  life."  "  Wretch,"  said  ^lontreuil,  "  if 
that  packet  is  opened,  thy  life  is  already  gone."  "  Yes,"  said  Desmarais; 
"  but  we  may  yet  purloin  the  papers,  and  throw  the  guilt  upon  some 
other  quarter.  What  if  I  admit  you  when  the  Count  is  abroad  ?  What 
if  you  steal  the  packet,  and  carry  away  other  articles  of  more  seeming 
value  ?  What,  too,  if  you  wound  me  in  the  arm  or  the  breast,  and  I  cola 
some  terrible  tale  of  robbers,  and  of  my  resistance,  could  we  not  manage 
then  to  throw  suspicion  upon  common  housebreakers,  —  nay,  could  we  not 
throw  it  upon  Oswald  himself  ?  Let  us  silence  that  traitor  by  death,  and 
who  shall  contradict  our  tale  ?  No  danger  shall  attend  this  plan.  I  will 
<rive  -^ou  the  key  of  the  escritoire :  the  theft  will  not  be  the  work  of  a 
moment."     Montreuil  at  first  demurred  to  this  proposal,  but  Desmarais 


424  DEVEREUX. 

was,  I  repeat,  resolved  not  to  incur  the  danger  of  the  theft  alone ;  the 
stake  was  great,  and  it  was  not  in  Montreuil's  nature  to  shrink  from  peril, 
when  once  it  became  necessary  to  confront  it.  "  Be  it  so,"  he  said,  at  last, 
"  thouo-h  the  scheme  is  full  of  difficulty  and  of  danger :  be  it  so.  We  have 
not  a  day  to  lose.  To-morrow  the  Count  will  place  the  document  in  some 
place  of  greater  safety,  and  unknown  to  us :  the  deed  shall  be  done  to-night. 
Procure  the  key  of  the  escritoire ;  admit  me  this  night ;  I  will  steal  dis- 
guised into  the  chamber ;  I  will  commit  the  act  from  which  you,  who  alone 
could  commit  it  with  safety,  shrink.  Instruct  me  exactly  as  to  the  place 
where  the  articles  you  speak  of  are  placed :  I  will  abstract  them  also. 
See  that  if  the  Count  wake,  he  has  no  weapon  at  hand.  Wound  yourself, 
as  you  say,  in  some  place  not  dangerous  to  life,  and  to-morrow,  or  within 
an  hour  after  my  escape,  tell  what  tale  you  will,  I  will  go,  meanwhile,  at 
once  to  Oswald ;  I  will  either  bribe  his  silence  —  ay,  and  his  immediate 
absence  from  England  —  or  he  shall  die.  A  death  that  secures  our  own 
self-preservation  is  excusable  in  the  reading  of  all  law,  divine  or  human." 

I  heard,  but  they  deemed  me  insensible  :  they  had  already  begun  to 
grow  unheeding  of  my  presence.  Montreuil  saw  me,  and  his  counte- 
nance grew  soft.  "  I  know  all,"  I  said,  as  I  caught  his  eye  which  looked 
on  me  in  pity,  "  I  know  all :  they  are  married.  Enough  1  —  with  my 
hope  ceases  my  love  :    care  not  for  me." 

Montreuil  embraced  and  spoke  to  me  in  kindness  and  in  praise.  He 
assured  me  that  you  had  kept  your  wedding  so  close  a  secret  that  he 
knew  it  not,  nor  did  even  Desmarais,  till  the  evening  before,  —  till  after 
he  had  proposed  that  I  should  visit  Isora  that  very  day.  1  know  not,  I 
care  not,  whether  he  was  sincere  in  this.  In  whatever  way  one  line  in 
the  dread  scroll  of  his  conduct  be  read,  the  scroll  was  written  in  guile, 
and  in  blood  was  it  sealed.  I  appeared  not  to  notice  Montreuil  or  his 
accomplice  any  more.  The  latter  left  the  house  first.  Montreuil  stole 
forth,  as  he  thought,  unobserved ;  he  was  masked,  and  in  complete  dis- 
guise. I,  too,  went  forth.  I  hastened  to  a  shop  where  such  things  were 
jirocured ;  I  purchased  a  mask  and  cloak  similar  to  the  priest's.  I  had 
heard  Montreuil  agree  with  Desmarais  that  the  door  of  the  house  should 
be  left  ajar,  in  order  to  give  greater  facility  to  the  escape  of  the  former ; 
I  repaired  to  the  house  in  time  to  see  Montreuil  enter  it.  A  strange, 
sharp  sort  of  cunning,  which  I  had  never  known  before,  ran  through 
the  dark  confusion  of  my  mind.  I  waited  for  a  minute,  till  it  was  likely 
that  Montreuil  had  gained  your  chamber  ;  I  then  pushed  open  the  door, 
and  ascended  the  stairs.  I  met  no  one  ;  the  moonlight  fell  around  me, 
and  its  rays  seemed  to  me  like  ghosts,  pale  and  shrouded,  and  gazing 
upon  me  with  wan  and  lustreless  eyes.  I  know  not  how  I  found  your 
chamber,  but  it  was  the  only  one  I  entered.  I  stood  in  the  same  room 
with  Isora  and  yourself:  ye  lay  in  sleep;  Isora's  face —     O  God!  I 


DEVEREUX.  425 

know  no  more  —  no  more  of  that  night  of  horror  —  save  that  I  fled  from 
the  house  reeking  with  blood,  —  a  murderer,  —  and  the  murderer  of 
Isora  I 

Then  came  a  long,  long  dream.  I  was  in  a  sea  of  blood,  —  blood-red 
was  the  sky,  and  one  still,  solitary  star  that  gleamed  far  away  with  a 
sickly  and  wan  light  was  the  only  spot,  above  and  around,  which  was 
not  of  the  same  intolerable  dye.  And  I  thought  my  eyelids  were  cut 
off,  as  those  of  the  Roman  consul  are  said  to  have  been,  and  1  had  noth- 
ing to  shield  my  eyes  from  that  crimson  light,  and  the  rolling  waters  of 
that  unnatural  sea.  And  the  red  air  burned  through  my  eyes  into  my 
brain,  and  then  that  also,  methought,  became  blood;  and  all  memory,  — 
all  images  of  memory,  —  all  idea,  —  wore  a  material  shape  and  a  material 
colour,  and  were  blood  too.  Everything  was  unutterably  silent,  except 
when  my  own  shrieks  rang  over  the  shoreless  ocean,  as  I  drifted  on. 
At  last  I  fixed  my  eyes  —  the  eyes  which  I  might  never  close  —  upon 
that  pale  and  single  star  ;  and  after  I  had  gazed  a  little  while,  the  star 
seemed  to  change  slowly  —  slowly  —  until  it  grew  like  the  pale  face  of 
that  murdered  girl,  and  then  it  vanished  utterly,  and  all  was  blood  ! 

This  vision  was  sometimes  broken,  sometimes  varied  by  others,  but  it 
always  returned  ;  and  when  at  last  I  completely  woke  from  it,  I  was  in 
Italy,  in  a  convent.  Montreuil  had  lost  no  time  in  removing  me  from 
England.  But  once,  shortly  after  my  recovery,  for  I  was  mad  for  many 
months,  he  visited  me,  and  he  saw  what  a  wreck  I  had  become.  He 
pitied  mc  ;  and  when  I  told  him  I  longed  above  all  things  for  liberty  — 
for  the  green  earth  and  the  fresh  air,  and  a  removal  from  that  gloomy 
abode  —  he  opened  the  convent  gates  and  blessed  me,  and  bade  me  go 
forth.  "  All  I  require  of  you,"  said  he,  "  is  a  promise.  If  it  be  under- 
stood that  you  live,  you  will  be  persecuted  by  inquiries  and  questions 
•which  will  terminate  in  a  conviction  of  your  crime  :  let  it  therefore  be 
reported  in  England  that  you  are  dead.  Consent  to  the  report,  and 
promise  never  to  quit  Italy  nor  to  see  Morton  Devereux." 

I  promised  ;  and  that  promise  I  have  kept :  but  I  promised  not  that 
I  would  never  reveal  to  you,  in  writing,  the  black  tale  which  I  have  now 
recorded.  ]\Iay  it  reach  you !  There  is  one  in  this  vicinity  who  has 
undertaken  to  bear  it  to  you  :  he  says  he  has  known  misery  ;  and  when 
he  said  so,  his  voice  sounded  in  my  ear  like  yours ;  and  I  looked  upon 
him,  and  thought  his  features  were  cast  somewhat  in  the  same  mould  as 
your  own ;  so  I  have  trusted  him.  I  have  now  told  all.  I  have  wrenched 
the  secret  from  my  heart  in  agony  and  with  fear.  I  have  told  all : 
though  things  which  I  believe  are  fiends  have  started  forth  from  the 
grim  walls  around  to  forbid  it  ;  though  dark  wings  have  swept  by  me, 
and  talons,  as  of  a  bird,  have  attempted  to  tear  away  the  paper  on 
which  I  write ;  though  eyes,  whose  light  was  never  drunk  from  earth, 


426  DEVEREUX, 

have  glared  on  ine  ;  and  mocking  voices  and  horrible  laughter  have  made 
my  flesh  creep,  and  thrilled  through  the  marrow  of  my  bones,  —  I  have 
told  all ;  I  have  finished  my  last  labour  in  this  world,  and  I  will  now  lie 
down  and  die. 

Aubrey  Devereux. 

Tlie  paper  dropped  from  my  hands.  Whatever  I  had  felt 
in  reading  it,  I  had  not  flinched  once  from  the  task.  From 
the  first  word  even  to  the  last,  I  had  gone  through  the  dreadful 
tale,  nor  uttered  a  syllable,  nor  moved  a  limb.  And  now  as  I 
rose,  though  I  had  found  the  being  who  to  me  had  withered 
this  world  into  one  impassable  desert;  though  I  had  found 
the  unrelenting  foe  and  the  escaped  murderer  of  Isora,  the 
object  of  the  execration  and  vindictiveness  of  years, —  not  one 
single  throb  of  wrath,  not  one  single  sentiment  of  vengeance, 
was  in  my  breast.  I  passed  at  once  to  the  bedside  of  my 
brother:  he  was  awake,  but  still  and  calm, —  the  calm  and 
stillness  of  exhausted  nature.  I  knelt  down  quietly  beside 
him.  I  took  his  hand,  and  I  shrank  not  from  the  touch, 
though  by  that  hand  the  only  woman  I  ever  loved  had 
perished. 

"  Look  up,  Aubrey ! "  said  I,  struggling  with  tears  which, 
despite  of  my  most  earnest  effort,  came  over  me ;  "'  look  up : 
all  is  forgiven.  Who  on  earth  shall  withhold  pardon  from  a 
crime  which  on  earth  has  been  so  awfully  punished?  Look 
up,  Aubrey ;  I  am  your  brother,  and  I  forgive  you.  You  are 
right :  my  childhood  was  harsh  and  fierce ;  and  had  you  feared 
me  less  you  might  have  confided  in  me,  and  you  would  not 
have  sinned  and  suffered  as  you  have  done  now.  Fear  me  no 
longer.  Look  up,  Aubrey,  it  is  Morton  who  calls  you.  Why 
do  you  not  speak?  My  brother,  my  brother, —  a  word,  a  sin- 
gle word,  I  implore  you." 

For  one  moment  did  Aubrey  raise  his  eyes,  one  moment  did 
he  meet  mine.  His  lips  quivered  wildly:  I  heard  the  death- 
rattle;  he  sank  back,  and  his  hand  dropped  from  my  clasp. 
My  words  had  snapped  asunder  the  last  chord  of  life.  Merci- 
ful Heaven!  I  thank  Thee  that  those  words  were  the  words 
of  pardon ! 


DEVEREUX.  427 


CHAPTER  V. 

IN    WHICH    THE    HISTORY    MAKES    A     GREAT    STRIDE    TOWARDS 

THE   FINAL    CATASTROPHE. THE  RETURN  TO  ENGLAND,    AND 

THE   VISIT   TO    A   DEVOTEE. 

At  night,  and  in  the  thrilling  forms  of  the  Catholic  ritual, 
was  Aubrey  Devereux  consigned  to  earth.  After  that  cere- 
mony I  could  linger  no  longer  in  the  vicinity  of  the  hermit- 
age. I  took  leave  of  the  Abbot  and  richly  endowed  his  convent 
in  return  for  the  protection  it  had  afforded  to  the  anchorite, 
and  the  Masses  which  had  been  said  for  his  soul.  Before  I 
left  Anselmo,  I  questioned  him  if  any  friend  to  the  Hermit 
had  ever,  during  his  seclusion,  held  any  communication  with 
the  Abbot  respecting  him.  Anselmo,  after  a  little  hesitation, 
confessed  that  a  man,  a  Frenchman,  seemingly  of  no  high 
rank,  had  several  times  visited  the  convent,  as  if  to  scrutinize 
the  habits  and  life  of  the  anchorite ;  he  had  declared  himself 
commissioned  by  the  Hermit's  relations  to  make  inquiry  of 
him  from  time  to  time;  but  he  had  given  the  Abbot  no  clew 
to  discover  himself,  though  Anselmo  had  especially  hinted  at 
the  expediency  of  being  acquainted  with  some  quarter  to 
which  he  could  direct  any  information  of  change  in  the  Her- 
mit's habits  or  health.  This  man  had  been  last  at  the  convent 
about  two  months  before  the  present  date;  but  one  of  the 
brothers  declared  that  he  had  seen  him  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
well  on  the  very  day  on  which  the  Hermit  died.  The  descrip- 
tion of  this  stranger  was  essentially  different  from  that  which 
would  have  been  given  of  Montreuil,  but  I  imagined  that  if 
not  the  Abbe  himself,  the  stranger  was  one  in  his  confidence 
or  his  employ. 

I  now  repaired  to  Eome,  where  I  made  the  most  extensive 
though  guarded  inquiries  after  Montreuil,  and  at  length  I 
learned  that  he  was  lying  concealed,  or  rather  unnoticed,  in 
England,  under  a  disguised  name;  having,  by  friends  or  by 


428  DEVEKEUX. 

money,  obtained  therein  a  tacit  connivance,  though  not  an 
open  pardon.  No  sooner  did  I  learn  this  intelligence,  than  I 
resolved  forthwith  to  depart  to  that  country.  I  crossed  the 
Alps,  traversed  France,  and  took  ship  at  Calais  for  Dover. 

Behold  me,  then,  upon  the  swift  seas  bent  upon  a  double 
purpose,  —  reconciliation  with  a  brother  whom  I  had  wronged, 
and  vengeance, — no,  not  vengeance,  but  justice  against  the 
criminal  I  had  discovered.  No !  it  was  not  revenge :  it  was 
no  infuriate,  no  unholy  desire  of  inflicting  punishment  upon 
a  personal  foe  which  possessed  me;  it  was  a  steady,  calm, 
unwavering  resolution,  to  obtain  justice  against  the  profound 
and  systematized  guilt  of  a  villain  who  had  been  the  bane  of 
all  who  had  come  within  his  contact,  that  nerved  my  arm  and 
engrossed  my  heart.  Bear  witness,  Heaven,  I  am  not  a  vin- 
dictive man!  I  have,  it  is  true,  been  extreme  in  hatred  as  in 
love;  but  I  have  ever  had  the  power  to  control  myself  from 
yielding  to  its  impulse.  When  the  full  persuasion  of  Gerald's 
crime  reigned  within  me,  I  had  thralled  my  emotion;  I  had 
curbed  it  within  the  circle  of  my  own  heart,  though  there, 
thus  pent  and  self -consuming,  it  was  an  agony  and  a  torture ; 
I  had  resisted  the  voice  of  that  blood  which  cried  from  the 
earth  against  a  murderer,  and  which  had  consigned  the 
solemn  charge  of  justice  to  my  hands.  Year  after  year  I 
had  nursed  an  unappeased  desire;  nor  ever  when  it  stung 
the  most,  suffered  it  to  become  an  actual  revenge.  I  had 
knelt  in  tears  and  in  softness  by  Aubrey's  bed;  I  had  poured 
forth  my  pardon  over  him;  I  had  felt,  while  I  did  so, — no, 
not  so  much  sternness  as  would  have  slain  a  worm.  By  his 
hand  had  the  murderous  stroke  been  dealt;  on  his  soul  was 
the  crimson  stain  of  that  blood  which  had  flowed  through  the 
veins  of  the  gentlest  and  the  most  innocent  of  God's  creat- 
ures; and  yet  the  blow  was  unavenged  and  the  crime  for- 
given. For  him  there  was  a  palliative,  or  even  a  gloomy 
but  an  unanswerable  excuse.  In  the  confession  which  had 
so  terribly  solved  the  mystery  of  my  life,  the  seeds  of  that 
curse,  which  had  grown  at  last  into  madness,  might  be  dis- 
covered even  in  the  first  dawn  of  Aubrey's  existence.  The 
latent  poison  might  be  detected  in  the  morbid  fever  of  his 


DEVEREUX.  429 

young  devotion,  in  his  jealous  cravings  of  affection,  in  the 
first  flush  of  his  ill-omened  love,  even  before  rivalship  and 
wrath  began.  Then,  too,  his  guilt  had  not  been  regularly- 
organized  into  one  cold  and  deliberate  system :  it  broke  forth 
in  impetuous  starts,  in  frantic  paroxysms  ;  it  was  often 
wrestled  with,  though  by  a  feeble  mind  ;  it  was  often  con- 
quered by  a  tender  though  a  fitful  temper  ;  it  might  not 
have  rushed  into  the  last  and  most  awful  crime,  but  for 
the  damning  instigation  and  the  atrocious  craft  of  one,  who 
(Aubrey  rightly  said)  could  wield  and  mould  the  unhappy 
victim  at  his  will.  Might  not,  did  I  say?  Nay,  but  for  Mon- 
treuil's  accursed  influence,  had  I  not  Aubrey's  own  word  that 
that  crime  never  would  have  been  committed?  He  had  re- 
solved to  stifle  his  love, — his  heart  had  already  melted  to 
Isora  and  to  me,  —  he  had  already  tasted  the  sweets  of  a  vir- 
tuous resolution,  and  conquered  the  first  bitterness  of  opposi- 
tion to  his  passion.  Why  should  not  the  resolution  thus 
auspiciously  begun  have  been  mellowed  into  effect?  Why 
should  not  the  grateful  and  awful  remembrance  of  the  crime 
he  had  escaped  continue  to  preserve  him  from  meditating 
crime  anew?  And  (oh,  thought,  which,  while  I  now  write, 
steals  over  me  and  brings  with  it  an  unutterable  horde  of  emo- 
tions !)  but  for  that  all-tainting,  all-withering  influence,  Au- 
brey's soul  might  at  this  moment  have  been  pure  from  murder 
and  Isora  —  the  living  Isora  —  by  my  side! 

What  wonder,  as  these  thoughts  came  over  me,  that  sense, 
feeling,  reason,  gradually  shrank  and  hardened  into  one  stern 
resolve?  I  looked  as  from  a  height  over  the  whole  conduct 
of  Montreuil.  I  saw  him  in  our  early  infancy  with  no  defi- 
nite motive  (beyond  the  general  policy  of  intrigue),  no  fixed 
design,  which  might  somewhat  have  lessened  the  callousness 
of  the  crime,  not  only  fomenting  dissensions  in  the  hearts  of 
brothers;  not  only  turning  the  season  of  warm  affections,  and 
yet  of  unopened  passion,  into  strife  and  rancour,  but  seizing 
upon  the  inherent  and  reigning  vice  of  our  bosoms,  which  he 
should  have  seized  to  crush,  in  order  only  by  that  master-vice 
to  weave  our  characters,  and  sway  our  conduct  to  his  will, 
whenever  a  cool-blooded  and  merciless  policy  required  us  to 


430  DEVEREUX. 

be  of  that  will  the  minions  and  the  tools.  Thus  had  he  taken 
hold  of  the  diseased  jealousy  of  Aubrey,  and  by  that  handle, 
joined  to  the  latent  spring  of  superstition,  guided  him  on 
his  wretched  course  of  misery  and  guilt.  Thus,  by  a  moral 
irresolution  in  Gerald  had  he  bowed  him  also  to  his  purposes, 
and  by  an  infantine  animosity  between  that  brother  and  my- 
self, held  us  both  in  a  state  of  mutual  hatred  which  I  shud- 
dered to  recall.  Readily  could  I  now  perceive  that  my  charges 
or  my  suspicions  against  Gerald,  which,  in  ordinary  circum- 
stances, he  might  have  dispassionately  come  forward  to  dis- 
prove, had  been  represented  to  him  by  Montreuil  in  the  light 
of  groundless  and  wilful  insults ;  and  thus  he  had  been  led  to 
scorn  that  full  and  cool  explanation  which,  if  it  had  not  elu- 
cidated the  mystery  of  my  afflictions,  would  have  removed 
the  false  suspicion  of  guilt  from  himself  and  the  real  guilt  of 
wrath  and  animosity  from  me. 

The  crime  of  the  forged  will,  and  the  outrage  to  the  dead 
and  to  myself,  was  a  link  in  his  woven  guilt  which  I  regarded 
the  least.  I  looked  rather  to  the  black  and  the  consummate 
craft  by  which  Aubrey  had  been  implicated  in  that  sin ;  and 
my  indignation  became  mixed  with  horror  when  I  saw  Mon- 
treuil working  to  that  end  of  fraud  by  the  instigation  not  only 
of  a  guilty  and  unlawful  passion,  but  of  the  yet  more  unnat- 
ural and  terrific  engine  of  frenzy, —  of  a  maniac's  despair. 
Over  the  peace,  the  happiness,  the  honour,  the  virtue  of  a 
whole  family,  through  fraud  and  through  blood,  this  priest 
had  marched  onward  to  the  goal  of  his  icy  and  heartless  am- 
bition, unrelenting  and  unrepenting;  "but  not,"  I  said,  as  I 
clenched  my  hand  till  the  nails  met  in  the  flesh,  "not  forever 
unchecked  and  unrequited !  " 

But  in  what  manner  was  justice  to  be  obtained?  A  public 
court  of  law?  What!  drag  forward  the  deep  dishonour  of  my 
house,  the  gloomy  and  convulsive  history  of  my  departed 
brother,  his  crime  and  his  insanity?  What!  bring  that  his- 
tory, connected  as  it  was  with  the  fate  of  Isora,  before  the 
curious  and  the  insolent  gaze  of  the  babbling  world?  Bare 
that  awful  record  to  the  jests,  to  the  scrutiny,  the  marvel  and 
the  pity,  of  that  most  coarse  of  all  tribunals, —  an  English 


DEVEREUX.  431 

court  of  law?  and  that  most  torturing  of  all  exposures,  —  the 
vulgar  comments  of  an  English  public?  Could  I  do  this? 
Yea,  in  the  sternness  of  my  soul,  I  felt  that  I  could  submit 
even  to  that  humiliation,  if  no  other  way  presented  itself  by 
which  I  could  arrive  at  justice.  Was  there  no  other  way?  — 
at  that  question  conjecture  paused:  I  formed  no  scheme,  or 
rather,  I  formed  a  hundred  and  rejected  them  all ;  my  mind 
settled,  at  last,  into  an  indistinct,  unquestioned,  but  prophetic 
resolution,  that,  whenever  my  path  crossed  Montreuil's,  it 
should  be  to  his  destruction.  I  asked  not  how,  nor  when, 
the  blow  was  to  be  dealt;  I  felt  only  a  solemn  and  exultant 
certainty  that,  whether  it  borrowed  the  sword  of  the  law,  or 
the  weapon  of  private  justice,  mine  should  be  the  hand  which 
brought  retribution  to  the  ashes  of  the  dead  and  the  agony  of 
the  survivor. 

So  soon  as  my  mind  had  subsided  into  this  determination,  I 
suffered  my  thoughts  to  dwell  upon  subjects  less  sternly 
agitating.  Fondly  did  I  look  forward  to  a  meeting  with  Ger- 
ald, and  a  reconciliation  of  all  our  early  and  most  frivolous 
disputes.  As  an  atonement  for  the  injustice  my  suspicions 
had  done  him,  I  resolved  not  to  reclaini  my  inheritance.  My 
fortune  was  already  ample;  and  all  that  I  cared  to  possess  of 
the  hereditary  estates  were  the  ruins  of  the  old  house  and  the 
copses  of  the  surrounding  park:  these  Gerald  would  in  all 
likelihood  easily  yield  to  me ;  and  with  the  natural  sanguine- 
ness  of  my  temperament,  I  already  planned  the  reconstruction 
of  the  ancient  building,  and  the  method  of  that  solitary  life 
in  which  I  resolved  that  the  remainder  of  my  years  should  be 
spent. 

Turning  from  this  train  of  thought,  I  recurred  to  the  mys- 
terious and  sudden  disappearance  of  Oswald:  that  I  was  now 
easily  able  to  account  for.  There  could  be  no  doubt  but  that 
Montreuil  had  (immediately  after  the  murder),  as  he  declared 
he  would,  induced  Oswald  to  quit  England,  and  preserve  si- 
lence, either  by  bribery  or  by  threats.  And  when  I  recalled 
the  impression  which  the  man  had  made  upon  me,  —  an  im- 
pression certainly  not  favourable  to  the  elevation  or  the  rigid 
honesty  of  his  mind, —  I  could  not  but  imagine  that  one  or 


432  DEVEREUX. 

the  other  of  tliese  means  Montreuil  found  far  from  difficult  of 
success.  The  delirious  fever  into  which  the  wounds  and  the 
scene  of  that  night  had  thrown  me,  and  the  long  interval  that 
consequently  elapsed  before  inquiry  was  directed  to  Oswald, 
gave  him  every  opportunity  and  indulgence  in  absenting  him- 
self from  the  country,  and  it  was  not  improbable  that  he  had 
accompanied  Aubrey  to  Italy. 

Here  I  paused,  in  deep  acknowledgment  of  the  truth  of 
Aubrey's  assertion,  that  "under  similar  circumstances  I  might 
perhaps  have  been  equally  guilty."  My  passions  had  indeed 
been  "  intense  and  fierce  as  his  own ;  "  and  there  was  a  dread 
coincidence  in  the  state  of  mind  into  which  each  of  us  had 
been  thrown  by  the  event  of  that  night,  which  made  the 
epoch  of  a  desolated  existence  to  both  of  us;  if  mine  had 
been  but  a  passing  delirium,  and  his  a  confirmed  and  lasting 
disease  of  the  intellect,  the  causes  of  our  malady  had  been 
widely  different.  He  had  been  the  criminal;  I,  only  the 
sufferer. 

Thus,  as  I  leaned  over  the  deck  and  the  waves  bore  me 
homeward,  after  so  many  years  and  vicissitudes,  did  the  shad- 
ows of  thought  and  memory  flit  across  me.  How  seemingly 
apart,  yet  how  closely  linked,  had  been  the  great  events  in 
my  wandering  and  wild  life!  My  early  acquaintance  with 
Bolingbroke,  whom  for  more  than  nine  years  I  had  not  seen, 
and  who,  at  a  superficial  glance,  would  seem  to  have  exercised 
influence  over  my  public  rather  than  my  private  life, — how 
secretly,  yet  how  powerfully,  had  that  circumstance  led  even 
to  the  very  thoughts  which  now  possessed  me,  and  to  the  very 
object  on  which  I  was  now  bound.  But  for  that  circumstance 
I  might  not  have  learned  of  the  retreat  of  Don  Diego  d'Al- 
varez  in  his  last  illness ;  I  might  never  have  renewed  my  love 
to  Isora;  and  whatever  had  been  her  fate,  destitution  and 
poverty  would  have  been  a  less  misfortune  than  her  union 
with  me.  But  for  my  friendship  for  Bolingbroke,  I  might 
not  have  visited  France,  nor  gained  the  favour  of  the  Eegent, 
nor  the  ill  offices  of  Dubois,  nor  the  protection  and  kindness 
of  the  Czar.  I  might  never  have  been  ambassador  at  the 
court  of ,  nor  met  with  Bezoni,  nor  sought  an  asylum  for 


DEVEREUX.  433 

a  spirit  sated  with  pomp  and  thirsting  for  truth,  at  the  foot 
of  the  Apennines,  nor  read  that  history  (which,  indeed,  might 
then  never  have  occurred)  that  now  rankled  at  my  heart,  urg- 
ing my  movements  and  colouring  my  desires.  Thus,  by  the 
finest  but  the  strongest  meshes  had  the  thread  of  my  political 
honours  been  woven  with  that  of  my  private  afflictions.  And 
thus,  even  at  the  licentious  festivals  of  the  Kegent  of  France, 

or  the  lifeless  parade  of  the  court  of ,  the  dark  stream 

of  events  had  flowed  onward  beneath  my  feet,  bearing  me 
insensibly  to  that  very  spot  of  time  from  which  I  now  sur- 
veyed the  past  and  looked  upon  the  mist  and  shadows  of  the 
future. 

Adverse  winds  made  the  little  voyage  across  the  Channel  a 
business  of  four  days.  On  the  evening  of  the  last  we  landed 
at  Dover.  Within  thirty  miles  of  that  town  was  my  mother's 
retreat;  and  I  resolved,  before  I  sought  a  reconciliation  with 
Gerald  or  justice  against  Montreuil,  to  visit  her  seclusion. 
Accordingly,   the  next  day  I  repaired  to  her  abode. 

What  a  contrast  is  there  between  the  lives  of  human  be- 
ings! Considering  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  all  mortal 
careers  are  the  same,  how  wonderfully  is  the  interval  varied ! 
Some,  the  weeds  of  the  world,  dashed  from  shore  to  shore,  — 
all  vicissitude,  enterprise,  strife,  disquiet;  others,  the  world's 
lichen,  rooted  to  some  peaceful  rock,  growing,  flourishing, 
withering  on  the  same  spot,  — scarce  a  feeling  expressed, 
scarce  a  sentiment  called  forth,  scarce  a  tithe  of  the  proper- 
ties of  their  very  nature  expanded  into  action. 

There  was  an  air  of  quiet  and  stillness  in  the  red  quad- 
rangular building,  as  my  carriage  stopped  at  its  porch,  which 
struck  upon  me,  like  a  breathing  reproach  to  those  who  sought 
the  abode  of  peace  with  feelings  opposed  to  the  spirit  of  the 
place.  A  small  projecting  porch  was  covered  with  ivy,  and 
thence  issued  an  aged  portress  in  answer  to  my  summons. 

"The  Countess  Devereux,"  said  she,  "is  now  the  superior 
of  this  society  [convent  they  called  it  not],  and  rarely  ad- 
mits any  stranger." 

I  gave  in  my  claim  to  admission,  and  was  ushered  into  a 
small  parlour:  all  there,  too,  was  still, — the  brown  oak  wain- 

23 


434  DEVEREUX. 

scoting,  tlie  huge  chairs,  the  few  antique  portraits,  the  unin- 
habited aspect  of  the  chamber, —  all  were  silently  eloquent  of 
quietude,  but  a  quietude  comfortless  and  sombre.  At  length 
my  mother  appeared.  I  sprang  forward :  my  childhood  was 
before  me, —  years,  care,  change  were  forgotten, —  I  was  a  boy 
again, —  I  sprang  forward,  and  was  in  my  mother's  embrace! 
It  was  long  before,  recovering  myself,  I  noted  how  lifeless 
and  chill  was  that  embrace,  but  I  did  so  at  last,  and  my 
enthusiasm  withered  at  once. 

We  sat  down  together,  and  conversed  long  and  uninter- 
ruptedly, but  our  conversation  was  like  that  of  acquaintances, 
not  the  fondest  and  closest  of  all  relations  (for  I  need  scarcely 
add  that  I  told  her  not  of  my  meeting  with  Aubrey,  nor  unde- 
ceived her  with  respect  to  the  date  of  his  death).  Every  mo- 
nastic recluse  that  I  had  hitherto  seen,  even  in  the  most 
seeming  content  with  retirement,  had  loved  to  converse  of  the 
exterior  world,  and  had  betrayed  an  interest  in  its  events: 
for  my  mother  only,  worldly  objects  and  interests  seemed  ut- 
terly dead.  She  expressed  little  surprise  to  see  me,  —  little 
surprise  at  my  alteration;  she  only  said  that  my  mien  was 
improved,  and  that  I  reminded  her  of  my  father :  she  testified 
no  anxiety  to  hear  of  my  travels  or  my  adventures ;  she  testi- 
fied even  no  willingness  to  speak  of  herself;  she  described  to 
me  the  life  of  one  day,  and  then  said  that  the  history  of  ten 
years  was  told.  A  close  cap  confined  all  the  locks  for  whose 
rich  luxuriance  and  golden  hue  she  had  once  been  noted, —  for 
here  they  were  not  the  victim  of  a  vow,  as  in  a  nunnery  they 
would  have  been, —  and  her  dress  was  plain,  simple,  and  \\n- 
adorned.  Save  these  alterations  of  attire,  none  were  visible 
in  her  exterior;  the  torpor  of  her  life  seemed  to  have  par- 
alyzed even  time;  the  bloom  yet  dwelt  in  her  unwrinkled 
cheek ;  the  mouth  had  not  fallen ;  the  faultless  features  were 
faultless  still.  But  there  was  a  deeper  stillness  than  ever 
breathing  through  this  frame :  it  was  as  if  the  soul  had  been 
lulled  to  sleep;  her  mien  was  lifeless;  her  voice  was  lifeless; 
her  gesture  was  lifeless ;  the  impression  she  produced  was  like 
that  of  entering  some  chamber  which  has  not  been  entered 
before  for  a  century.     She  consented  to  my  request  to  stay 


DEVEREUX.  435 

with  her  all  the  day :  a  bed  was  prepared  for  me ;  and  at  sun- 
rise the  next  morning  I  was  folded  once  more  in  the  chilling 
mechanism  of  her  embrace,  and  dismissed  on  my  journey  to 
the  metropolis. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  RETREAT  OF  A  CELEBRATED  MAN,  AND  A  VISIT  TO 
A  GREAT  POET. 

I  ARRIVED  in  town,  and  drove  at  once  to  Gerald's  house. 
It  was  not  difficult  to  find  it,  for  in  my  young  day  it  had  been 

the  residence  of  the  Duke  of ;    and  wealthy  as  I  knew 

was  the  owner  of  the  Devereux  lands,  I  was  somewhat  startled 
at  the  extent  and  the  magnificence  of  his  palace.  To  my  in- 
expressible disappointment,  I  found  that  Gerald  had  left  Lon- 
don a  day  or  two  before  my  arrival  on  a  visit  to  a  nobleman 
nearly  connected  with  our  family,  and  residing  in  the  same 
county  as  that  in  which  Devereux  Court  was  situated.  Since 
the  fire,  which  had  destroyed  all  of  the  old  house  but  the  one 
tower  which  I  had  considered  as  peculiarly  my  own,  Gerald, 
I  heard,  had  always,  in  visiting  his  estates,  taken  up  his 
abode  at  the  mansion  of  one  or  other  of  his  neighbours;  and 

to  Lord 's  house  I  now  resolved  to  repair.     My  journey 

was  delayed  for  a  day  or  two,  by  accidentally  seeing  at  the 
door  of  the  hotel,  to  which  I  drove  from  Gerald's  house,  the 
favourite  servant  of  Lord  Bolingbroke. 

This  circumstance  revived  in  me,  at  once,  all  my  attach- 
ment to  that  personage,  and  hearing  he  was  at  his  country 
house,  within  a  few  miles  from  town,  I  resolved  the  next 
morning  to  visit  him.  It  was  not  only  that  I  contemplated 
with  an  eager  yet  a  melancholy  interest  an  interview  with 
one  whose  blazing  career  I  had  long  watched,  and  whose 
letters  (for  during  the  years  we  had  been  parted  he  wrote  to 
me  often)  seemed  to  testify  the  same  satiety  of  the  triumphs 


436  DEVEREUX. 

and  gauds  of  ambition  which  had  brought  something  of  wisdom 
to  myself;  it  was  not  only  that  I  wished  to  commune  with 
that  Bolingbroke  in  retirement  whom  I  had  known  the  oracle 
of  statesmen  and  the  pride  of  courts ;  nor  even  that  I  loved 
the  man,  and  was  eager  once  more  to  embrace  him.  A  fiercer 
and  more  active  motive  urged  me  to  visit  one  whose  knowl- 
edge of  all  men  and  application  of  their  various  utilities 
were  so  remarkable,  and  who  even  in  his  present  peace  and 
retirement  would  not  improbably  be  acquainted  with  the 
abode  of  that  unquiet  and  plotting  ecclesiastic  whom  I  now 
panted  to  discover,  and  whom  Bolingbroke  had  of  old  often 
guided  or  employed. 

When  my  carriage  stopped  at  the  statesman's  door,  I  was 
informed  that  Lord  Bolingbroke  was  at  his  farm.  Farm! 
how  oddly  did  that  word  sound  in  my  ear,  coupled  as  it  was 
with  the  name  of  one  so  brilliant  and  so  restless! 

I  asked  the  servant  to  direct  me  where  I  should  find  him, 
and,  following  the  directions,  I  proceeded  to  the  search  alone. 
It  was  a  day  towards  the  close  of  autumn,  bright,  soft,  clear, 
and  calm  as  the  decline  of  a  vigorous  and  genial  age.  I  walked 
slowly  through  a  field  robbed  of  its  golden  grain,  and  as  I 
entered  another  I  saw  the  object  of  my  search.  He  had  seem- 
ingly just  given  orders  to  a  person  in  a  labourer's  dress,  who 
was  quitting  him,  and  with  downcast  eyes  he  was  approach- 
ing towards  me.  I  noted  how  slow  and  even  was  the  pace 
which,  once  stately,  yet  rapid  and  irregular,  had  betrayed  the 
haughty  but  wild  character  of  his  mind.  He  paused  often, 
as  if  in  thought,  and  I  observed  that  once  he  stopped  longer 
than  usual,  and  seemed  to  gaze  wistfully  on  the  ground.  Af- 
terwards (when  I  had  joined  him)  we  passed  that  spot,  and  I 
remarked,  with  a  secret  smile,  that  it  contained  one  of  those 
little  mounds  in  which  that  busy  and  herded  tribe  of  the  in- 
sect race,  which  have  been  held  out  to  man's  social  state  at 
once  as  a  mockery  and  a  model,  held  their  populous  home. 
There  seemed  a  latent  moral  in  the  pause  and  watch  of  the 
disappointed  statesman  by  that  mound,  which  afforded  a  clew 
to  the  nature  of  his  reflections. 

He  did  not  see  me  till  I  was  close  before  him,   aud  had 


DEVEREUX.  437 

called  him  by  his  name,  nor  did  he  at  first  recognize  me,  for 
my  garb  was  foreign,  and  ray  upper  lip  unshaven;  and,  as  I 
said  before,  years  had  strangely  altered  me;  but  when  he  did, 
he  testified  all  the  cordiality  I  had  anticipated.  I  linked  my 
arm  in  his,  and  we  walked  to  and  fro  for  hours,  talking  of  all 
that  had  passed  since  and  before  our  parting,  and  feeling  our 
hearts  warm  to  each  other  as  we  talked. 

"The  last  time  I  saw  you,"  said  he,  "how  widely  did  our 
hopes  and  objects  differ !  Yours  from  my  own :  you  seemingly 
had  the  vantage-ground,  but  it  was  an  artificial  eminence,  and 
my  level  state,  though  it  appeared  less  tempting,  was  more 
secure.  I  had  just  been  disgraced  by  a  misguided  and  un- 
grateful prince.  I  had  already  gone  into  a  retirement  where 
my  only  honours  were  proportioned  to  my  fortitude  in  bear- 
ing condemnation,  and  my  only  flatterer  was  the  hope  of  find- 
ing a  companion  and  a  Mentor  in  myself.  You,  my  friend, 
parted  with  life  before  you;  and  you  only  relinquished  the 
pursuit  of  Fortune  at  one  court,  to  meet  her  advances  at  an- 
other. Nearly  ten  years  have  flown  since  that  time :  my  sit- 
uation is  but  little  changed;  I  am  returned,  it  is  true,  to  my 
native  soil,  but  not  to  a  soil  more  indulgent  to  ambition  and 
exertion  than  the  scene  of  my  exile.  My  sphere  of  action  is 
still  shut  from  me:  my  mind  is  still  banished.^  You  return 
young  in  years,  but  full  of  successes.  Have  they  brought  you 
happiness,  Devereux?  or  have  you  yet  a  temper  to  envy  my 
content?" 

"  Alas !  "  said  I,  "  who  can  bear  too  close  a  search  beneath 
the  mask  and  robe?  Talk  not  of  me  now.  It  is  ungracious 
for  the  fortunate  to  repine;  and  I  reserve  whatever  may  dis- 
quiet me  within  for  your  future  consolation  and  advice.  At 
present  speak  to  me  of  yourself;  you  are  happy,  then?" 

"I  am!"  said  Bolingbroke,  emphatically.  "Life  seems 
to  me  to  possess  two  treasures:  one  glittering  and  precarious; 
the  other  of  less  rich  a  show,  but  of  a  more  solid  value.  The 
one  is  Power,  the  other  Virtue ;  and  there  is  this  main  differ- 

1  I  need  scarcely  remind  the  reader  that  Lord  Bolingbroke,  though  he 
had  received  a  full  pardon,  was  forbidden  to  resume  his  seat  in  the  House 
of  Lords.  —  Ed. 


438  DEVEREUX. 

euce  between  the  two, —  Power  is  intrusted  to  us  as  a  loan 
ever  required  again,  and  with  a  terrible  arrear  of  interest; 
Virtue  obtained  by  us  as  a  hoon  which  we  can  only  lose  through 
our  own  folly,  when  once  it  is  acquired.  In  my  youth  I  was 
caught  by  the  former ;  hence  my  errors  and  my  misfortunes ! 
In  my  declining  years  I  have  sought  the  latter;  hence  my 
palliatives  and  my  consolation.  But  you  have  not  seen  my 
home,  and  all  its  attractions,"  added  Bolingbroke,  with  a 
smile  which  reminded  me  of  his  former  self.  "  I  will  show 
them  to  you."     And  we  turned  our  steps  to  the  house. 

As  we  walked  thither  I  wondered  to  find  how  little  melan- 
choly was  the  change  Bolingbroke  had  undergone.  Ten  years, 
which  bring  man  from  his  prime  to  his  decay,  had  indeed  left 
their  trace  upon  his  stately  form,  and  the  still  unrivalled 
beauty  of  his  noble  features;  but  the  manner  gained  all  that 
the  form  had  lost.  In  his  days  of  more  noisy  greatness,  there 
had  been  something  artificial  and  unquiet  in  the  sparkling  al- 
ternations he  had  loved  to  adopt.  He  had  been  too  fond  of 
changing  wisdom  by  a  quick  turn  into  wit, — too  fond  of  the 
affectation  of  bordering  the  serious  with  the  gay,  business  with 
pleasure.  If  this  had  not  taken  from  the  polish  of  his  man- 
ner, it  had  diminished  its  dignity  and  given  it  the  air  of  be- 
ing assumed  and  insincere.  Now  all  was  quiet,  earnest,  and 
impressive;  there  was  tenderness  even  in  what  was  melan- 
choly: and  if  there  yet  lingered  the  affectation  of  blending 
the  classic  character  with  his  own,  the  character  was  more 
noble  and  the  affectation  more  unseen.  But  this  manner  was 
only  the  faint  mirror  of  a  mind  which,  retaining  much  of  its 
former  mould,  had  been  embellished  and  exalted  by  adversity, 
and  which  if  it  banished  not  its  former  faculties,  had  acquired 
a  thousand  new  virtues  to  redeem  them. 

"You  see,"  said  my  companion,  pointing  to  the  walls  of  the 
hall,  which  we  had  now  entered,  "the  subject  which  at  pres- 
ent occupies  the  greater  part  of  my  attention.  I  am  meditat- 
ing how  to  make  the  hall  most  illustrative  of  its  owner's 
pursuits.  You  see  the  desire  of  improving,  of  creating,  and 
of  associating  the  improvement  and  the  creation  with  our- 
selves, follows  us  banished  men  even  to  our  seclusion.     I 


DEVEREUX.  439 

think  of  having  those  walls  painted  with  the  implements  of 
husbandry,  and  through  pictures  of  spades  and  ploughshares 
to  express  my  employments  and  testify  my  content  in  them." 

"Cincinnatus  is  a  better  model  than  Aristippus:  confess 
it,"  said  I,  smiling.  "But  if  the  senators  come  hither  to 
summon  you  to  power,  will  you  resemble  the  Roman,  not  only 
in  being  found  at  your  plough,  but  in  your  reluctance  to  leave 
it,  and  your  eagerness  to  return?  " 

"What  shall  I  say  to  you?"  replied  Bolingbroke.  "Will 
you  play  the  cynic  if  I  answer  no  ?  We  should  not  boast  of 
despising  power,  when  of  use  to  others,  but  of  being  contented 
to  live  without  it.  This  is  the  end  of  my  philosophy !  But 
let  me  present  you  to  one  whom  I  value  more  now  than  I 
valued  power  at  any  time." 

As  he  said  this,  Bolingbroke  threw  open  the  door  of  an 
apartment,  and  introduced  me  to  a  lady  with  whom  he  had 
found  that  domestic  happiness  denied  him  in  his  first  mar- 
riage. The  niece  of  Madame  de  Maintenon,  this  most  charm- 
ing woman  possessed  all  her  aunt's  wit,  and  far  more  than  all 
her  aunt's  beauty.-'  She  was  in  weak  health;  but  her  vivacity 
was  extreme,  and  her  conversation  just  what  should  be  the 
conversation  of  a  woman  who  shines  without  striving  for  it. 

The  business  on  which  I  was  bound  only  allowed  me  to  stay 
two  days  with  Bolingbroke,  and  this  I  stated  at  first,  lest 
he  should  have  dragged  me  over  his  farm. 

"Well,"  said  my  host,  after  vainly  endeavouring  to  induce 
me  to  promise  a  longer  stay,  "if  you  can  only  give  us  two 
days,  I  must  write  and  excuse  myself  to  a  great  man  with 
whom  I  was  to  dine  to-day.  Yet,  if  it  were  not  so  inhospita- 
ble, I  should  like  much  to  carry  you  with  me  to  his  house; 
for  I  own  that  I  wish  you  to  see  my  companions,  and  to  learn 
that  if  I  still  consult  the  oracles,  they  are  less  for  the  predic- 
tions of  fortune  than  as  the  inspirations  of  the  god." 

1  I  am  not  ashamed  to  say  to  you  that  I  admire  her  more  every  hour  of 
my  life.  —  Letter  from  Lord  Bolingbroke  to  Swift. 

Bolingbroke  loved  her  to  the  List ;  and  perhaps  it  is  just  to  a  man  so  cele- 
brated for  his  gallantries  to  add  that  this  beautiful  and  accomplished  woman 
seems  to  have  admired  and  esteemed  as  much  as  she  loved  him.  —  Ed. 


440  DEVEREUX. 

"Ah!"  said  Lady  Bolingbroke,  who  spoke  in  French,  "I 
know  whom  you  allude  to.  Give  him  my  homage,  and  assure 
him,  when  he  next  visits  us,  we  will  appoint  six  dames  du 
palais  to  receive  and  pet  him." 

Upon  this  I  insisted  upon  accompanying  Bolingbroke  to 
the  house  of  so  fortunate  a  being,  and  he  consented  to  my 
wish  with  feigned  reluctance,  but  evident  pleasure. 

"And  who,"  said  I  to  Lady  Bolingbroke,  "is  the  happy 
object  of  so  much  respect?" 

Lady  Bolingbroke  answered,  laughing,  that  nothing  was  so 
pleasant  as  suspense,  and  that  it  would  be  cruel  in  her  to  de- 
prive me  of  it;  and  we  conversed  with  so  much  zest  that  it 
was  not  till  Bolingbroke  had  left  the  room  for  some  moments 
that  I  observed  he  was  not  present.  I  took  the  opportunity 
to  remark  that  I  was  rejoiced  to  find  him  so  happy  and  with 
such  just  cause  for  happiness. 

"  He  is  happy,  though  at  times  he  is  restless.  How,  chained 
to  this  oar,  can  he  be  otherwise?"  answered  Lady  Boling- 
broke, with  a  sigh;  "but  his  friends,"  she  added,  "who  most 
enjoy  his  retirement,  must  yet  lament  it.  His  genius  is  not 
wasted  here,  it  is  true:  where  could  it  be  wasted?  But  who 
does  not  feel  that  it  is  employed  in  too  confined  a  sphere? 
And  yet  —  "  and  I  saw  a  tear  start  to  her  eye  —  "  I,  at  least, 
ought  not  to  repine.  I  should  lose  the  best  part  of  my  happi- 
ness if  there  was  nothing  I  could  console  him  for." 

"Believe  me,"  said  I,  "I  have  known  Bolingbroke  in  the 
zenith  of  his  success ;  but  never  knew  him  so  worthy  of  con- 
gratulation as  no7v  !  " 

"Is  that  flattery  to  him  or  to  me?"  said  Lady  Bolingbroke, 
smiling  archly,  for  her  smiles  were  quick  successors  to  her 
tears. 

^^ Detur  digmorif"  answered  I;  "bx;t  you  must  allow  that, 
though  it  is  a  fine  thing  to  have  ail  that  the  world  can  give, 
it  is  still  better  to  gain  something  that  the  world  cannot 
take  away?" 

"  Are  you  also  a  philosopher?"  cried  Lady  Bolingbroke,  gayly. 
"Ah,  poor  me!  In  my  youth,  my  portion  was  the  cloister;* 
1  She  was  brought  up  at  St.  Cyr.  —  Ed. 


DEVEREUX.  441 

in  my  later  years  I  am  banished  to  the  porch  !  You  have 
no  conception,  Monsieur  Devereux,  what  wise  faces  and  pro- 
found maxims  we  have  here,  especially  as  all  who  come  to 
visit  my  lord  think  it  necessary  to  quote  Tully,  and  talk 
of  solitude  as  if  it  were  a  heaven!  Les pauvres  bons  gens! 
they  seem  a  little  surprised  when  Henry  receives  them  smil- 
ingly, begs  them  to  construe  the  Latin,  gives  them  good  wine, 
and  sends  them  back  to  London  with  faces  half  the  length 
they  were  on  their  arrival.  Mais  void,  Ilonsieur,  le  fermier 
philosophe  !  " 

And  Bolingbroke  entering,  I  took  my  leave  of  this  lively 
and  interesting  lady  and  entered  his  carriage. 

As  soon  as  we  were  seated,  he  pressed  me  for  my  reasons 
for  refusing  to  prolong  my  visit.  As  I  thought  they  would 
be  more  opportune  after  the  excursion  of  the  day  was  over, 
and  as,  in  truth,  I  was  not  eager  to  relate  them,  I  begged  to 
defer  the  narration  till  our  return  to  his  house  at  night,  and 
then  I  directed  the  conversation  into  a  new  channel. 

*'My  chief  companion,"  said  Bolingbroke,  after  describing 
to  me  his  course  of  life,  "  is  the  man  you  are  about  to  visit. 
He  has  his  frailties  and  infirmities,-^ and  in  saying  that,  I 
only  imply  that  he  is  human, — but  he  is  wise,  reflective,  gen- 
erous, and  affectionate ;  add  these  qualities  to  a  dazzling  wit, 
and  a  genius  deep,  if  not  sublime,  and  what  wonder  that  we 
forget  something  of  vanity  and  something  of  fretfulness, — 
effects  rather  of  the  frame  than  of  the  mind.  The  wonder 
only  is  that,  with  a  body  the  victim  to  every  disease,  crippled 
and  imbecile  from  the  cradle,  his  frailties  should  not  be  more 
numerous,'  and  his  care,  his  thoughts,  and  attentions  not 
wholly  limited  to  his  own  complaints.  For  the  sickly  are  al- 
most of  necessity  selfish;  and  that  mind  must  have  a  vast 
share  of  benevolence  which  can  always  retain  the  softness  of 
charity  and  love  for  others,  when  pain  and  disease  constitute 
the  morbid  links  that  perpetually  bind  it  to  self.  If  this 
great  character  is  my  chief  companion,  my  chief  correspond- 
ent is  not  less  distinguished;  in  a  word,  no  longer  to  keep 
you  in  suspense.  Pope  is  my  companion  and  Swift  my 
correspondent." 


442  DEVEREUX. 

"  You  are  fortunate,  but  so  also  are  they.  Your  letter  in- 
formed me  of  Swift's  honourable  exile  in  Ireland:  how  does 
he  bear  it?" 

"  Too  feelingly :  his  disappointments  turn  his  blood  to  acid. 
He  said,  characteristically  enough,  in  one  of  his  letters,  that 
in  fishing  once  when  he  was  a  little  boy,  he  felt  a  great  fish 
at  the  end  of  his  line,  which  he  drew  up  almost  to  the  ground, 
but  it  dropped  in,  and  the  disappointment,  he  adds,  vexes 
him  to  this  day,  and  he  believes  it  to  be  the  type  of  all  his 
future  disappointments :  ^  it  is  wonderful  how  reluctantly  a 
very  active  mind  sinks  into  rest." 

1  In  this  letter  Swift  adds,  "  I  should  be  ashamed  to  say  this  if  you  [Lord 
Bolingbroke]  had  not  a  spirit  fitter  to  bear  your  own  misfortuues  than  I  have 
to  think  of  them  ; "  and  this  is  true.  Nothing  can  be  more  striking,  or  more 
honourable  to  Lord  Bolingbroke,  than  the  contrast  between  Swift's  letters 
and  that  nobleman's  upon  the  subject  of  their  mutual  disappointments.  I 
especially  note  the  contrast,  because  it  has  been  so  grievously  the  cant  of 
Lord  Bolingbroke's  decriers  to  represent  his  affection  for  retirement  as 
hoUow,  and  his  resignation  in  adversity  as  a  boast  rather  than  a  fact.  Now 
I  will  challenge  any  one  thoroughly  and  dispassionately  to  examine  what  is 
left  to  us  of  the  life  of  this  great  man,  and  after  having  done  so,  to  select 
from  all  modern  history  an  example  of  one  who,  in  the  prime  of  life  and 
height  of  ambition,  ever  passed  from  a  very  active  and  exciting  career  into 
retirement  and  disgrace,  and  bore  the  change  —  long,  bitter,  and  permanent 
as  it  was  —  with  a  greater  and  more  thoroughly  sustained  magnanimity  than 
did  Lord  Bolingbroke.  He  has  been  reproached  for  taking  part  in  political 
contests  in  the  midst  of  his  praises  and  "  affected  enjoyment "  of  retirement  j 
and  this,  made  matter  of  reproach,  is  exactly  the  subject  on  which  he  seems 
to  me  the  most  worthy  of  praise.  For,  putting  aside  all  motives  for  action, 
on  the  purity  of  which  men  are  generally  incredulous,  as  a  hatred  to  ill 
government  (an  antipathy  wonderfully  strong  in  wise  men,  and  wonderfully 
weak  in  fools),  the  honest  impulse  of  the  citizen,  and  the  better  and  higher 
sentiment,  to  which  Bolingbroke  appeared  peculiarly  alive,  of  affection  to 
mankind,  —  putting  these  utterly  aside,  —  it  must  be  owned  that  resignation 
is  the  more  noble  in  proportion  as  it  is  the  less  passive ;  that  retirement  is 
only  a  morbid  selfishness  if  it  prohibit  exertions  for  others ;  that  it  is  only 
really  dignified  and  noble  when  it  is  the  shade  whence  issue  the  oracles  that 
are  to  instruct  mankind  ;  and  that  retirement  of  this  nature  is  the  sole  seclu- 
sion which  a  good  and  wise  man  will  covet  or  commend.  Tlie  very  philosophy 
which  makes  such  a  man  seek  the  quiet,  makes  him  eschew  the  mutiliti/  of  the 
hermitage.  Very  little  praiseworthy  to  me  would  have  seemed  Lord  Boling- 
broke among  his  haymakers  and  ploughmen,  if  among  haymnkers  and  plough* 
men  he  had  looked  with  an  indifferent  eye  upon  a  profligate  Minister  and 


DEVEREUX.  443 

"Yet  why  should  retirement  be  rest?  Do  you  recollect  in 
the  first  conversation  we  ever  had  together,  we  talked  of 
Cowley?  Do  you  recollect  how  justly,  and  even  sublimely, 
he  has  said,  'Cogitation  is  that  which  distinguishes  the  soli- 
tude of  a  God  from  that  of  a  wild  beast '  ? " 

"It  is  finely  said,"  answered  Bolingbroke;  "but  Swift  was 
born  not  for  cogitation  but  action;  for  turbulent  times,  not 
for  calm.  He  ceases  to  be  great  directly  he  is  still;  and  his 
bitterness  at  every  vexation  is  so  great  that  I  have  often 
thought,  in  listening  to  him,  of  the  Abbe  de  Cyran,  who, 
attempting  to  throw  nutshells  out  of  the  bars  of  his  window, 
and  constantly  failing  in  the  attempt,  exclaimed  in  a  paroxysm 
of  rage,  'Thus  does  Providence  delight  in  frustrating  my 
designs ! '  " 

"  But  you  are  fallen  from  a  far  greater  height  of  hope  than 
Swift  could  ever  have  attained:  you  bear  this  change  well, 
but  not  /  hope  without  a  struggle." 

"  You  are  right, — not  without  a  struggle ;  while  corruption 
thrives,  I  will  not  be  silent;  while  bad  men  govern,  I  will 
not  be  still." 

In  conversation  of  this  sort  passed  the  time,  till  we  arrived 
at  Pope's  villa. 

We  found  the  poet  in  his  study, —  indued,  as  some  of  his 
pictures  represent  him,  in  a  long  gown  and  a  velvet  cap.  He 
received  Bolingbroke  with  great  tenderness,  and  being,  as  he 
said,  in  robuster  health  than  he  had  enjoyed  for  months, 
he  insisted  on  carrying  us  to  his  grotto.  I  know  nothing 
more  common  to  poets  than  a  pride  in  what  belongs  to  their 
houses ;  and  perhaps  to  a  man  not  ill-natured,  there  are  few 
things  more  pleasant  than  indulging  the  little  weaknesses  of 
those  we  admire.  We  sat  down  in  a  small  temple  made  en- 
tirely of  shells ;  and  whether  it  was  that  the  Creative  Genius 
gave  an  undue  charm  to  the  place,  I  know  not:  but  as  the 

a  A-enal  parliament ;  very  little  interest  in  my  eyes  would  have  attached 
itself  to  his  beans  and  vetches,  had  beans  and  vetches  caused  him  to  forget 
that  if  he  was  happier  in  a  farm,  he  could  be  more  useful  in  a  senate,  and 
made  him  forego,  in  the  sphere  of  a  bailiff,  all  care  for  re-entering  that  of  a 
legislator.  —  Ed. 


444  DEVEREUX. 

murmur  of  a  rill,  glassy  as  the  Blandusian  fountain,  was 
caught,  and  re-given  from  side  to  side  by  a  perpetual  echo, 
and  through  an  arcade  of  trees,  whose  leaves,  ever  and  anon, 
fell  startingly  to  the  ground  beneath  the  light  touch  of  the 
autumn  air ;  as  you  saw  the  sails  on  the  river  pass  and  van- 
ish, like  the  cares  which  breathe  over  the  smooth  glass  of 
wisdom,  but  may  not  linger  to  dim  it,  it  was  not  difficult  to 
invest  the  place,  humble  as  it  was,  with  a  classic  interest,  or 
to  recall  the  loved  retreats  of  the  Eoman  bards,  without  smil- 
ing too  fastidiously  at  the  contrast. 

"  Sweet  Echo,  sweetest  nymph,  that  liv'st  unseen, 
Within  thy  airy  shell, 
By  slow  Meander's  margin  green. 

Or  by  the  violet  embroidered  vale 
Where  the  lovelorn  nightingale 
Nightly  to  thee  her  sad  song  mourneth  well ; 

Sweet  Echo,  dost  thou  shun  those  haunts  of  yore, 
And  in  the  dim  caves  of  a  northern  shore 
Delight  to  dwell !  " 

"Let  the  compliment  to  you,  Pope,"  said  Bolingbroke, 
"  atone  for  the  profanation  of  weaving  three  wretched  lines  of 
mine  with  those  most  musical  notes  of  Milton." 

''  Ah !  "  said  Pope,  "  would  that  you  could  give  me  a  fitting 
inscription  for  my  fount  and  grotto!  The  only  one  I  can 
remember  is  hackneyed,  and  yet  it  has  spoilt  me,  I  fear,  for 
all  others. 

" '  Hujus  Nympha  loci,  sacri  custodia  foutis 

Dormio  dum  blandaj  seutio  murmur  aqua; ; 
Parce  meum,  quistpiis  tanges  cava  marmora,  somnum 
Eumpere  ;  sive  bibas,  sive  lavere,  tace.'  "  ^ 

"We  cannot  hope  to  match  it,"  said  Bolingbroke,  "though 

1  Thus  very  inadequately  translated  by  Pope  (see  his  Letter  to  Edward 
Blount,  Esq.,  descriptive  of  his  grotto) :  — 

"  Nymph  of  the  grot,  these  sacred  springs  I  keep. 
And  to  tlie  murmur  of  these  waters  sleep  : 
Ah,  spare  my  shimbers  ;  gently  tread  the  cave. 
And  drink  in  silence,  or  in  silence  lave." 

It  is,  however,  quite  impossible  to  convey  to  an  unlearned  reader  the  exqui- 
site and  spirit-like  beauty  of  the  Latin  verses.  —  Ed. 


DEVEREUX.  445 

you  know  I  value  myself  on  these  things.  But  tell  me  your 
news  of  Gay:  is  he  growing  wiser?" 

"Not  a  whit;  he  is  forever  a  dupe  to  the  spes  credula  ;  al- 
ways talking  of  buying  an  annuity,  that  he  may  be  indepen- 
dent, and  always  spending  as  fast  as  he  earns,  that  he  may 
appear  munificent." 

"Poor  Gay!  but  he  is  a  common  example  of  the  improvi- 
dence of  his  tribe,  while  you  are  an  exception.  Yet  mark, 
Devereux,  the  inconsistency  of  Pope's  thrift  and  carelessness : 
he  sends  a  parcel  of  fruit  to  some  ladies  with  this  note,  'Take 
care  of  the  papers  that  wrap  the  apples,  and  return  them 
safely;  they  are  the  only  copies  I  have  of  one  part  of  the 
Iliad.  '  Thus,  you  see,  our  economist  saves  his  paper,  and 
hazards  his  epic !  " 

Pope,  who  is  always  flattered  by  an  allusion  to  his  negli- 
gence of  fame,  smiled  slightly  and  answered,  "What  man, 
alas,  ever  profits  by  the  lessons  of  his  friends?  How  many 
exact  rules  has  our  good  Dean  of  St.  Patrick  laid  down  for 
both  of  us ;  how  angrily  still  does  he  chide  us  for  our  want 
of  prudence  and  our  love  of  good  living!  I  intend,  in  answer 
to  his  charges  on  the  latter  score,  though  I  vouch,  as  I  well 
may,  for  our  temperance,  to  give  him  the  reply  of  the  sage  to 
the  foolish  courtier  —  " 

"What  was  that?"  asked  Bolingbroke. 

"  Why,  the  courtier  saw  the  sage  picking  out  the  best  dishes 
at  table.  'How,'  said  he  with  a  sneer,  'are  sages  such  epi- 
cures?'—  'Do  you  think,  Sir,'  replied  the  wise  man,  reach- 
ing over  the  table  to  help  himself,  'do  you  think,  Sir,  that 
the  Creator  made  the  good  things  of  this  world  only  for 
fools?'" 

"  How  the  Dean  will  pish  and  pull  his  wig  when  he  reads 
your  illustration,"  said  Bolingbroke,  laughing.  "We  shall 
never  agree  in  our  reasonings  on  that  part  of  philosophy. 
Swift  loves  to  go  out  of  his  way  to  find  privation  or  distress, 
and  has  no  notion  of  Epicurean  wisdom;  for  my  part,  I  think 
the  use  of  knowledge  is  to  make  us  happier.  I  would  com- 
pare the  mind  to  the  beautiful  statue  of  Love  by  Praxiteles. 
When  its  eyes  were  bandaged  the  countenance  seemed  grave 


446  DEVEREUX. 

and  sad,  but  the  moment  you  removed  the  bandage  the  most 
serene  and  enchanting  smile  diffused  itself  over  the  whole 
face." 

So  passed  the  morning  till  the  hour  of  dinner,  and  this  re- 
past was  served  with  an  elegance  and  luxury  which  the  sons 
of  Apollo  seldom  command.^  As  the  evening  closed,  our  con- 
versation fell  upon  friendship,  and  the  increasing  disposition 
towards  it  which  comes  with  increasing  years.  "  Whilst  my 
mind,"  said  Bolingbroke,  "shrinks  more  and  more  from  the 
world,  and  feels  in  its  independence  less  yearning  to  external 
objects,  the  ideas  of  friendship  return  oftener, — they  busy 
me,  they  warm  me  more.  Is  it  that  we  grow  more  tender  as 
the  moment  of  our  great  separation  approaches?  or  is  it  that 
they  who  are  to  live  together  in  another  state  (for  friendship 
exists  not  but  for  the  good)  begin  to  feel  more  strongly  that 
divine  sympathy  which  is  to  be  the  great  bond  of  their  future 
society?"'^ 

While  Bolingbroke  was  thus  speaking,  and  Pope  listened 
with  all  the  love  and  reverence  which  he  evidently  bore  to  his 
friend  stamped  upon  his  worn  but  expressive  countenance,  I 
inly  said,  "  Surely,  the  love  between  minds  like  these  should 
live  and  last  without  the  changes  that  ordinary  affections  feel ! 
Who  would  not  mourn  for  the  strength  of  all  human  ties,  if 
hereafter  these  are  broken,  and  asperity  succeed  to  friendship, 
or  aversion  to  esteem?  /,  a  wanderer,  without  heir  to  my 
memory  and  wealth,  shall  pass  away,  and  my  hasty  and  un- 
mellowed  fame  will  moulder  with  my  clay;  but  will  the 
names  of  those  whom  I  now  behold  ever  fall  languidly  on  the 
ears  of  a  future  race,  and  will  there  not  forever  be  some  sym- 
pathy with  their  friendship,  softer  and  warmer  than  admira- 
tion for  their  fame?" 

We  left  our  celebrated  host  about  two  hours  before  mid- 
night, and  returned  to  Dawley. 

1  Pope  seems  to  have  been  rather  capricious  in  this  respect ;  but  in  general 
he  must  be  considered  open  to  the  sarcasm  of  displaying  the  bounteous  host 
to  those  who  did  not  want  a  dinner,  and  the  niggard  to  those  who  did.  —  Ed. 

2  This  beautiful  sentiment  is  to  be  found,  with  very  slight  alteration,  in  a 
letter  from  Bolingbroke  to  Swift.  —  Ed. 


DEVEREUX.  447 

On  our  road  thither  I  questioned  Bolingbroke  respecting 
Montreuil,  and  I  found  that,  as  I  had  surmised,  he  was  able 
to  give  me  some  information  of  that  arch-schemer.  Gerald's 
money  and  hereditary  influence  had  procured  tacit  connivance 
at  the  Jesuit's  residence  in  England,  and  Montreuil  had  for 
some  years  led  a  quiet  and  unoffending  life  in  close  retire- 
ment. "Lately,  however,"  said  Bolingbroke,  "I  have  learned 
that  the  old  spirit  has  revived,  and  I  accidentally  heard  three 
days  ago,  when  conversing  with  one  well  informed  on  state 
matters,  that  this  most  pure  administration  has  discovered 
some  plot  or  plots  with  which  Montreuil  is  connected;  I  be- 
lieve he  will  be  apprehended  in  a  few  days." 

"And  where  lurks  he?" 

"  He  was,  I  heard,  last  seen  in  the  neighbourhood  of  your 
brother's  property  at  Devereux  Court,  and  I  imagine  it 
probable  that  he  is  still  in  that  neighbourhood." 

This  intelligence  made  me  resolve  to  leave  Dawley  even 
earlier  than  I  had  intended,  and  I  signified  to  Lord  Boling- 
broke my  intention  of  quitting  him  by  sunrise  the  next  morn- 
ing. He  endeavoured  in  vain  to  combat  my  resolution.  I 
was  too  fearful  lest  Montreuil,  hearing  of  his  danger  from  the 
state,  might  baffle  my  vengeance  by  seeking  some  impenetra- 
ble asylum,  to  wish  to  subject  my  meeting  with  him  and  with 
Gerald,  whose  co-operation  I  desired,  to  any  unnecessary  de- 
lay. I  took  leave  of  my  host  therefore  that  night,  and  or- 
dered my  carriage  to  be  in  readiness  by  the  first  dawn  of 
morning. 


CHAPTER  YTI. 

THE   PLOT   APPROACHES    ITS   D:6x0UEMENT. 

Although  the  details  of  my  last  chapter  have  somewhat 
retarded  the  progress  of  that  denouement  with  which  this  vol- 
ume is  destined  to  close,  yet  I  do  not  think  the  destined 


448  DEVEREUX. 

reader  will  regret  lingering  over  a  scene  in  wliich,  after  years 
of  restless  enterprise  and  exile,  he  beholds  the  asylum  which 
fortune  had  prepared  for  the  most  extraordinary  character 
with  which  I  have  adorned  these  pages. 

It  was  before  daybreak  that  I  commenced  my  journey.  The 
shutters  of  the  house  were  as  yet  closed;  the  gray  mists  ris- 
ing slowly  from  the  earth,  and  the  cattle  couched  beneath  the 
trees,  the  cold  but  breezeless  freshness  of  the  morning,  the 
silence  of  the  unawakened  birds,  all  gave  an  inexpressible 
stillness  and  quiet  to  the  scene.  The  horses  slowly  ascended 
a  little  eminence,  and  I  looked  from  the  window  of  the  car- 
riage on  the  peaceful  retreat  I  had  left.  I  sighed  as  I  did  so, 
and  a  sick  sensation,  coupled  with  the  thought  of  Isora,  came 
chill  upon  my  heart.  Xo  man  happily  placed  in  this  social 
world  can  guess  the  feelings  of  envy  with  which  a  wanderer 
like  me,  without  tie  or  home,  and  for  whom  the  roving  eager- 
ness of  youth  is  over,  surveys  those  sheltered  spots  in  which 
the  breast  garners  up  all  domestic  bonds,  its  household  and 
holiest  delights;  the  companioned  hearth,  the  smile  of  in- 
fancy, and,  dearer  than  all,  the  eye  that  glasses  our  purest, 
our  tenderest,  our  most  secret  thoughts;  these  —  oh,  none 
who  enjoy  them  know  how  they  for  whom  they  are  not  have 
pined  and  mourned  for  them ! 

I  had  not  travelled  many  hours,  when,  upon  the  loneliest 
part  of  the  road,  my  carriage,  which  had  borne  me  without  an 
accident  from  Rome  to  London,  broke  down.  The  postilions 
said  there  was  a  small  inn  about  a  mile  from  the  spot;  thither 
I  repaired :  a  blacksmith  was  sent  for,  and  I  found  the  acci- 
dent to  the  carriage  would  require  several  hours  to  repair. 
No  solitary  chaise  did  the  inn  afford;  but  the  landlord,  who 
was  a  freeholder  and  a  huntsman,  boasted  one  valuable  and 
swift  horse,  which  he  declared  was  fit  for  an  emperor  or  a 
highwayman.  I  was  too  impatient  of  delay  not  to  grasp  at 
this  intelligence.  I  gave  mine  host  whatever  he  demanded 
for  the  loan  of  his  steed,  transferred  my  pistols  to  an  immense 
pair  of  holsters,  which  adorned  a  high  demi-pique  saddle, 
wherewith  he  obliged  me,  and,  within  an  hour  from  the  date 
of  the  accident,  recommenced  my  journey. 


DEVEREUX.  449 

The  evening  closed,  as  I  became  aware  of  the  presence  of  a 
fellow-traveller.  He  was,  like  myself,  on  horseback.  He 
wore  a  short,  dark  gray  cloak,  a  long  wig  of  a  raven  hue,  and 
a  large  hat,  which,  flapping  over  his  face,  conspired,  with  the 
increasing  darkness,  to  allow  me  a  very  imperfect  survey  of 
his  features.  Twice  or  thrice  he  had  passed  me,  and  always 
with  some  salutation,  indicative  of  a  desire  for  further  ac- 
quaintance ;  but  my  mood  is  not  naturally  too  much  inclined 
to  miscellaneous  society,  and  I  was  at  that  time  peculiarly 
covetous  of  my  own  companionship.  I  had,  therefore,  given 
but  a  brief  answer  to  the  horseman's  courtesy,  and  had  ridden 
away  from  him  with  a  very  unceremonious  abruptness.  At 
length,  when  he  had  come  up  to  me  for  the  fourth  time,  and 
for  the  fourth  time  had  accosted  me,  my  ear  caught  some- 
thing in  the  tones  of  his  voice  which  did  not  seem  to  me 
wholly  unfamiliar.  I  regarded  him  with  more  attention  than 
I  had  as  yet  done,  and  replied  to  him  more  civilly  and  at 
length.  Apparently  encouraged  by  this  relaxation  from  my 
reserve,  the  man  speedily  resumed. 

"Your  horse.  Sir,"  said  he,  *'is  a  fine  animal,  but  he  seems 
jaded:  you  have  ridden  far  to-day,  I  '11  venture  to  guess." 

"I  have,  Sir;  but  the  town  where  I  shall  pass  the  night  is 
not  above  four  miles  distant,  I  believe." 

"Hum  —  ha!  —  you  sleep  at  D — — ,  then?"  said  the  horse- 
man, inquisitively. 

A  suspicion  came  across  me;  we  were  then  entering  a  very 
lonely  road,  and  one  notoriously  infested  with  highwaymen. 
My  fellow  equestrian's  company  might  have  some  sinister 
meaning  in  it,  I  looked  to  my  holsters,  and  leisurely  taking 
out  one  of  my  pistols,  saw  to  its  priming,  and  returned  it  to 
its  depository.  The  horseman  noted  the  motion,  and  he 
moved  his  horse  rather  uneasily,  and  I  thought  timidly,  to 
the  other  side  of  the  road. 

"You  travel  well  armed,  Sir,"   said  he,  after  a  pause. 

"  It  is  a  necessary  precaution.  Sir,"  answered  I,  com- 
posedly, "  in  a  road  one  is  not  familiar  with,  and  with  com- 
panions one  has  never  had  the  happiness  to  meet  before," 

"Ahem!  —  ahem! — Parhleu,  Monsieur  le  Comte,   you  al- 

29 


450  DEVEREUX. 

lude  to  me;  but  I  warrant  this  is  not  the  first  time  vje  have 
met." 

"Ha!"  said  I,  riding  closer  to  my  fellow  traveller,  "you 
know  me,  then,  and  we  have  met  before.  I  thought  I  recog- 
nized your  voice,  but  I  cannot  remember  when  or  where  I  last 
heard  it." 

"  Oh,  Count,  I  believe  it  was  only  by  accident  that  we  com- 
menced acquaintanceship,  and  only  by  accident,  you  see,  do 
we  now  resume  it.  But  I  perceive  that  I  intrude  on  your 
solitude.    Farewell,  Count,  and  a  pleasant  night  at  your  inn." 

"Not  so  fast,  Sir,"  said  I,  laying  firm  hand  on  my  compan- 
ion's shoulder,  "I  know  you  now,  and  I  thank  Providence 
that  I  have  found  you.  Marie  Oswald,  it  is  not  lightly  that 
I  will  part  with  you !  " 

"With  all  my  heart.  Sir,  with  all  my  heart.  But,  viorhleu! 
Monsieur  le  Comte,  do  take  your  hand  from  my  shoulder :  I 
am  a  nervous  man,  and  your  pistols  are  loaded,  and  perhaps 
you  are  choleric  and  hasty.  I  assure  you  I  am  far  from  wish- 
ing to  part  with  you  abruptly,  for  I  have  watched  you  for  the 
last  two  days  in  order  to  enjoy  the  honour  of  this  interview." 

"Indeed!  your  wish  will  save  both  of  us  a  world  of  trouble. 
I  believe  you  may  serve  me  effectually;  if  so,  you  will  find 
me  more  desirous  and  more  able  than  ever  to  show  my 
gratitude." 

"Sir,  you  are  too  good,"  quoth  Mr.  Oswald,  with  an  air  far 
more  respectful  than  he  had  yet  shown  me.  "  Let  us  make  to 
your  inn,  and  there  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  receive  your 
commands."  So  saying,  Marie  pushed  on  his  horse,  and  I 
urged  my  own  to  the  same  expedition. 

"But  tell  me,"  said  I,  as  we  rode  on,  "why  you  have  wished 
to  meet  me?  —  me  whom  you  so  cruelly  deserted  and  for- 
sook? " 

"Oh,  parhleu,  spare  me  there!  it  was  not  I  who  deserted 
you:  I  was  compelled  to  fly;  death,  murder,  on  one  side; 
safety,  money,  and  a  snug  place  in  Italy,  as  a  lay-brother  of 
the  Institute  on  the  other!  What  could  I  do?  —  you  were  ill 
in  bed,  not  likely  to  recover,  not  able  to  protect  me  in  my 
present  peril,  in  a  state  that  in  all  probability  never  would 


DEVEREUX.  451 

require  my  services  for  the  future.  Oh,  Monsieur  le  Comte, 
it  Avas  not  desertion,  —  that  is  a  cruel  word, —  it  was  self-pres- 
ervation and  common  prudence." 

"Well,"  said  I,  complaisantly,  "you  apply  words  better 
than  I  applied  them.  And  how  long  have  you  been  returned 
to  England?" 

"Some  few  weeks,  Count,  not  more.  I  was  in  London  when 
you  arrived;  I  heard  of  that  event;  I  immediately  repaired 
to  your  hotel;  you  were  gone  to  my  Lord  Bolingbroke's;  I 
followed  you  thither;  you  had  left  Dawley  when  I  arrived 
there;  I  learned  your  route  and  followed  you.  Parhleu  and 
morhleu  !     I  find  you,  and  you  take  me  for  a  highwayman !  " 

"  Pardon  my  mistake :  the  clearest-sighted  men  are  subject 
to  commit  such  errors,  and  the  most  innocent  to  suffer  by 
them.  So  yiontxQwil  jjersuaded  you  to  leave  England;  did  he 
also  persuade  you  to  return?  " 

"  Xo :  I  was  charged  by  the  Institute  with  messages  to  him 
and  others.  But  we  are  near  the  town,  Count,  let  us  defer 
our  conversation  till  then." 

We  entered  D ,  put  up  our  horses,  called  for  an  apart- 
ment,—  to  which  summons  Oswald  added  another  for  wine, 
—  and  then  the  virtuous  Marie  commenced  his  explanations. 
I  was  deeply  anxious  to  ascertain  whether  Gerald  had  ever 
been  made  acquainted  with  the  fraud  by  which  he  had  ob- 
tained possession  of  the  estates  of  Devereux;  and  I  found 
that,  from  Desmarais,  Oswald  had  learned  all  that  had  oc- 
curred to  Gerald  since  Marie  had  left  England.  From  Os- 
wald's prolix  communication,  I  ascertained  that  Gerald  was, 
during  the  whole  of  the  interval  between  my  uncle's  death 
and  my  departure  from  England,  utterly  unacquainted  with 
the  fraud  of  the  will.  He  readily  believed  that  my  uncle  had 
found  good  reason  for  altering  his  intentions  with  respect  to 
me;  and  my  law  proceedings,  and  violent  conduct  towards 
himself,  only  excited  his  indignation,  not  aroused  his  suspi- 
cions. During  this  time  he  lived  entirely  in  the  country,  in- 
dulging the  rural  hospitality  and  the  rustic  sports  which  he 
especially  affected,  and  secretly  but  deeply  involved  with 
Montreuil   in  political  intrigues.      All   this  time   the  Abbe 


452  DEVEREUX. 

made  no  further  use  of  him  than  to  borrow  whatever  sums  he 
required  for  his  purposes.  Isora's  death,  and  the  confused 
story  of  the  document  given  me  by  Oswald,  Montreuil  had  in- 
terpreted to  Gerald  according  to  the  interpretation  of  the 
world;  namely,  he  had  thrown  the  suspicion  upon  Oswald,  as 
a  common  villain,  who  had  taken  advantage  of  my  credulity 
about  the  will,  introduced  himself  into  the  house  on  that 
pretence,  attempted  the  robbery  of  the  most  valuable  articles 
therein, — which,  indeed,  he  had  succeeded  in  abstracting, — 
and  who,  on  my  awaking  and  contesting  with  him  and  his 
accomplice,  had,  in  self-defence,  inflicted  the  wounds  which 
had  ended  in  my  delirium  and  Isora's  death.  This  part  of 
my  tale  Montreuil  never  contradicted,  and  Gerald  believed  it 
to  the  present  day.  The  affair  of  1715  occurred;  the  govern- 
ment, aware  of  Gerald's  practices,  had  anticipated  his  design 
of  joining  the  rebels;  he  was  imprisoned;  no  act  of  overt 
guilt  on  his  part  was  proved,  or  at  least  brought  forward; 
and  the  government  not  being  willing,  perhaps,  to  proceed  to 
violent  measures  against  a  very  young  man,  and  the  head  of 
a  very  powerful  house,  connected  with  more  than  thirty 
branches  of  the  English  hereditary  nobility,  he  received  his 
acquittal  just  before  Sir  William  Wyndham  and  some  other 
suspected  Tories  received  their  own. 

Prior  to  the  breaking  out  of  that  rebellion,  and  on  the  eve 
of  Montreuil's  departure  for  Scotland,  the  priest  summoned 
Desmarais,  whom,  it  will  be  remembered,  I  had  previously 
dismissed,  and  whom  Montreuil  had  since  employed  in  vari- 
ous errands,  and  informed  him  that  he  had  obtained  for  his 
services  the  same  post  under  Gerald  which  the  Fatalist  had 
filled  under  me.  Soon  after  the  failure  of  the  rebellion,  Dev- 
ereux  Court  was  destroyed  by  accidental  fire ;  and  Montreuil, 
who  had  come  over  in  disguise,  in  order  to  renew  his  attacks 
on  my  brother's  coffers  ^attacks  to  which  Gerald  yielded  very 
sullenly,  and  with  many  assurances  that  he  would  no  more 
incur  the  danger  of  political  and  seditious  projects),  now  ad- 
vised Gerald  to  go  up  to  London,  and,  in  order  to  avoid  the 
suspicion  of  the  government,  to  mix  freely  in  the  gayeties  of 
the  court.     Gerald  readily  consented;  for,  though  internally 


DEVEREUX.  453 

convinced  that  the  charms  of  the  metropolis  were  not  equal 
to  those  of  the  country,  yet  he  liked  change,  and  Devereux 
Court  being  destroyed,  he  shuddered  a  little  at  the  idea  of  re- 
building so  enormous  a  pile.  Before  Gerald  left  the  old  tower 
{my  tower)  which  was  alone  spared  by  the  flames,  and  at 
which  he  had  resided,  though  without  his  household,  rather 
than  quit  a  place  where  there  was  such  "excellent  shooting," 
Montreuil  said  to  Desmarais,  *'This  ungrateful  seigneur  de 
villaye  already  shows  himself  the  niggard;  he  must  know 
what  we  know, —  that  is  our  only  sure  hold  of  him,  —  but  he 
must  not  know  it  yet ; "  and  he  proceeded  to  observe  that  it 
was  for  the  hotbeds  of  courtly  luxury  to  mellow  and  hasten 
an  opportunity  for  the  disclosure.  He  instructed  Desmarais 
to  see  that  Gerald  (whom  even  a  valet,  at  least  one  so  artful 
as  Desmarais,  might  easily  influence)  partook  to  excess  of 
every  pleasure, —  at  least  of  every  pleasure  which  a  gentle- 
man might  without  derogation  to  his  dignity  enjoy.  Gerald 
went  to  town,  and  very  soon  became  all  that  Montreuil 
desired. 

Montreuil  came  again  to  England;  his  great  project,  Al- 
beroni's  project,  had  failed.  Banished  France  and  Spain, 
and  excluded  Italy,  he  was  desirous  of  obtaining  an  asylum  in 
England,  until  he  could  negotiate  a  return  to  Paris.  For  the 
first  of  these  purposes  (the  asylum)  interest  was  requisite; 
for  the  latter  (the  negotiation)  money  was  desirable.  He 
came  to  seek  both  these  necessaries  in  Gerald  Devereux. 
Gerald  had  already  arrived  at  that  prosperous  state  when 
money  is  not  lightly  given  away.  A  dispute  arose;  and 
Montreuil  raised  the  veil,  and  showed  the  heir  on  what  terms 
his  estates  were  held. 

Rightly  Montreuil  had  read  the  human  heart!  So  long  as 
Gerald  lived  in  the  country,  and  tasted  not  the  full  enjoy- 
ments of  his  great  wealth,  it  would  have  been  highly  perilous 
to  have  made  this  disclosure;  for,  though  Gerald  had  no  great 
love  for  me,  and  was  bold  enough  to  run  any  danger,  yet  he 
was  neither  a  Desmarais  nor  a  Montreuil.  He  was  that  most 
caprioious  thing,  a  man  of  honour;  and  at  that  day  he  would 
instantly  have  given  up  the  estate  to  me,  and  Montreuil  and 


454  DEVEREUX. 

the  philosopher  to  the  hangman.  But,  after  two  or  three 
years  of  every  luxury  that  wealth  could  purchase ;  after  liv- 
ing in  those  circles,  too,  where  wealth  is  the  highest  possible 
merit,  and  public  opinion,  therefore,  only  honours  the  rich, 
fortune  became  far  more  valuable  and  the  conscience  far  less 
nice.  Living  at  Devereux  Court,  Gerald  had  only  30,000(?. 
a  year ;  living  in  London,  he  had  all  that  30,  OOOZ.  a  year  can 
purchase :  a  very  great  difference  this  indeed !  Honour  is  a 
fine  bulwark  against  a  small  force;  but,  unbacked  by  other 
principle,  it  is  seldom  well  manned  enough  to  resist  a  large 
one.  When,  therefore,  Montreuil  showed  Gerald  that  he 
could  lose  his  estate  in  an  instant;  that  the  world  would  never 
give  him  credit  for  innocence,  when  guilt  would  have  con- 
ferred on  him  such  advantages ;  that  he  would  therefore  part 
with  all  those  et  cwtera  which,  now  in  the  very  prime  of  life, 
made  his  whole  idea  of  human  enjoyments ;  that  he  would  no 
longer  be  the  rich,  the  powerful,  the  honoured,  the  magnificent, 
the  envied,  the  idolized  lord  of  thousands,  but  would  sink  at 
once  into  a  younger  brother,  dependent  on  the  man  he  most 
hated  for  his  very  subsistence, —  since  his  debts  would  greatly 
exceed  his  portion, — and  an  object  through  life  of  contemptu- 
ous pity  or  of  covert  suspicion;  that  all  this  change  could 
happen  at  a  word  of  Montreuil's,  what  wonder  that  he  should 
be  staggered, —  should  hesitate  and  yield?  Montreuil  ob- 
tained, then,  whatever  sums  he  required;  and  through  Ger- 
ald's influence,  pecuniary  and  political,  procured  from  the 
minister  a  tacit  permission  for  him  to  remain  in  England, 
under  an  assumed  name  and  in  close  retirement.  Since  then, 
Montreuil  (though  secretly  involved  in  treasonable  practices) 
had  appeared  to  busy  himself  solely  in  negotiating  a  pardon 
at  Paris.  Gerald  had  lived  the  life  of  a  man  who,  if  he  has 
parted  with  peace  of  conscience,  will  make  the  best  of  the 
bargain  by  procuring  every  kind  of  pleasure  in  exchange ;  and 
le  petit  Jean  Desmarais,  useful  to  both  priest  and  spendthrift, 
had  passed  his  time  very  agreeably, — laughing  at  his  employ- 
ers, studying  philosophy,  and  filling  his  pockets ;  for  I  need 
scarcely  add  that  Gerald  forgave  him  without  much  difficulty 
for  his  share  in  the  forgery.      A  man,  as  Oswald  shrewdly 


DEVEREUX.  455 

observed,  is  seldom  inexoral)le  to  those  crimes  by  which  he 
has  profited.  "And  wliere  lurks  Montveuil  uow?"  I  asked; 
"in  the  neighbourhood  of  Devereux  Court?" 

Oswald  looked  at  me  with  some  surprise.  "  How  learned 
you  that,  Sir?  It  is  true.  He  lives  quietly  and  privately 
iu  that  vicinity.  The  woods  around  the  house,  the  caves  in 
the  beach,  and  the  little  isle  opposite  the  castle,  afford  him  in 
turn  an  asylum;  and  the  convenience  with  which  correspond- 
ence with  France  can  be  there  carried  on  makes  the  scene  of 
his  retirement  peculiarly  adapted  to  his  purpose." 

I  now  began  to  question  Oswald  respecting  himself;  for  I 
was  not  warmly  inclined  to  place  implicit  trust  in  the  ser- 
vices of  a  man  who  had  before  shown  himself  at  once  mer- 
cenary and  timid.  There  was  little  cant  or  disguise  about 
that  gentleman;  he  made  few  pretences  to  virtues  which  he 
did  not  possess;  and  he  seemed  now,  both  by  wine  and  famil- 
iarity, peculiarly  disposed  to  be  frank.  It  was  he  who  in 
Italy  (among  various  other  and  less  private  commissions)  had 
been  appointed  by  Montreuil  to  watch  over  Aubrey;  on  my 
brother's  death  he  had  hastened  to  England,  not  only  to  ap- 
prise Montreuil  of  that  event,  but  charged  with  some  especial 
orders  to  him  from  certain  members  of  the  Institute.  He 
had  found  Montreuil  busy,  restless,  intriguing,  even  in  se- 
clusion, and  cheered  by  a  recent  promise,  from  Fleuri  him- 
self, that  he  should  speedily  obtain  pardon  and  recall.  It 
was,  at  this  part  of  Oswald's  story,  easy  to  perceive  the  causes 
of  his  renewed  confidence  in  me.  Montreuil,  engaged  in  new 
plans  and  schemes,  at  once  complicated  and  vast,  paid  but  a 
slight  attention  to  the  wrecks  of  his  past  projects.  Aubrey 
dead,  myself  abroad,  Gerald  at  his  command, —  he  perceived, 
in  our  house,  no  cause  for  caution  or  alarm.  This,  appar- 
ently, rendered  him  less  careful  of  retaining  the  venal  ser- 
vices of  Oswald  than  his  knowledge  of  character  should  have 
made  him;  and  when  that  gentleman,  then  in  London,  acci- 
dentally heard  of  my  sudden  arrival  in  this  country,  he  at 
once  perceived  how  much  more  to  his  interest  it  would  be  to 
serve  me  than  to  maintain  an  ill-remunerated  fidelity  to  Mon- 
treuil.    In  fact,  as  I  have  since  learned,  the  priest's  discre- 


456  DEVEREUX. 

tion  was  less  to  blame  than  I  then  imagined;  for  Oswald  was 
of  a  remarkably  impudent,  profligate,  and  spendthrift  turn; 
and  his  demands  for  money  were  considerably  greater  than 
the  value  of  his  services;  or  perhaps,  as  Montreuil  thought, 
when  Aubrey  no  longer  lived,  than  the  consequence  of  his 
silence.  When,  therefore,  I  spoke  seriously  to  my  new  ally 
of  my  desire  of  wreaking  ultimate  justice  on  the  crimes  of 
Montreuil,  I  found  that  his  zeal  was  far  from  being  chilled 
by  my  determination,  —  nay,  the  very  cowardice  of  the  man 
made  him  ferocious;  and  the  moment  he  resolved  to  betray 
Montreuil,  his  fears  for  the  priest's  vengeance  made  him 
eager  to  destroy  where  he  betrayed.  I  am  not  addicted  to 
unnecessary  procrastination.  Of  the  unexpected  evidence  I 
had  found  I  was  most  eager  to  avail  myself.  I  saw  at  once 
how  considerably  Oswald's  testimony  would  lessen  any  diffi- 
culty I  might  have  in  an  explanation  with  Gerald,  as  well  as 
in  bringing  Montreuil  to  justice:  and  the  former  measure 
seemed  to  me  necessary  to  insure,  or  at  least  to  expedite,  the 
latter.  I  proposed,  therefore,  to  Oswald,  that  he  should  im- 
mediately accompany  me  to  the  house  in  which  Gerald  was 
then  a  visitor;  the  honest  Marie,  conditioning  only  for  an- 
other bottle,  which  he  termed  a  travelling  comforter,  readily 
acceded  to  my  wish.  I  immediately  procured  a  chaise  and 
horses ;  and  in  less  than  two  hours  from  the  time  we  entered 
the  inn  we  were  on  the  road  to  Gerald.  What  an  impulse  to 
the  wheel  of  destiny  had  the  event  of  that  one  day  given ! 

At  another  time,  I  might  have  gleaned  amusement  from  the 
shreAvd  roguery  of  my  companion,  but  he  found  me  then  but  a 
dull  listener.  I  served  him,  in  truth,  as  men  of  his  stamp 
are  ordinarily  served:  so  soon  as  I  had  extracted  from  him 
whatever  was  meet  for  present  use,  I  favoured  him  with  little 
further  attention.  He  had  exhausted  all  the  communications 
it  was  necessary  for  me  to  know ;  so,  in  the  midst  of  a  long 
story  about  Italy,  Jesuits,  and  the  wisdom  of  Marie  Oswald, 
I  affected  to  fall  asleep ;  my  companion  soon  followed  my  ex- 
ample in  earnest,  and  left  me  to  meditate,  undisturbed,  over 
all  that  I  had  heard,  and  over  the  schemes  now  the  most 
promising  of  success.     I  soon  taught  myself  to  look  with  a 


DEVEREUX.  457 

lenient  eye  on  Gerald's  after-connivance  in  Montreuil's  for- 
gery ;  and  I  felt  that  I  owed  to  my  surviving  brother  so  large 
an  arrear  of  affection  for  the  long  injustice  1  had  rendered 
him  that  I  was  almost  pleased  to  find  something  set  upon  the 
opposite  score.  All  men,  perhaps,  would  rather  forgive  than 
be  forgiven.  I  resolved,  therefore,  to  affect  ignorance  of 
Gerald's  knowledge  of  the  forgery;  and,  even  should  he  con- 
fess it,  to  exert  all  my  art  to  steal  from  the  confession  its 
shame.  From  this  train  of  reflection  my  mind  soon  directed 
itself  to  one  far  fiercer  and  more  intense ;  and  I  felt  my  heart 
pause,  as  if  congealing  into  marble,  when  I  thought  of  Mon- 
treuil  and  anticipated  justice. 

It  was  nearly  noon  on  the  following  day  when  we  arrived 

at  Lord 's  house.     We  found  that  Gerald  had  left  it  the 

day  before,  for  the  enjoyment  of  the  lield-sports  at  Devereux 
Court,  and  thither  we  instantly  proceeded. 

It  has  often  seemed  to  me  that  if  there  be,  as  certain  an- 
cient philosophers  fabled,  one  certain  figure  pervading  all 
nature,  human  and  universal,  it  is  the  circle.  Eound,  in  one 
vast  monotony,  one  eternal  gyration,  roll  the  orbs  of  space. 
Thus  moves  the  spirit  of  creative  life,  kindling,  progressing, 
maturing,  decaying,  perishing,  reviving  and  rolling  again, 
and  so  onward  forever  through  the  same  course;  and  thus 
even  would  seem  to  revolve  the  mysterious  mechanism  of 
human  events  and  actions.  Age,  ere  it  returns  to  "the  second 
childishness,  the  mere  oblivion  "  from  which  it  passes  to  the 
grave,  returns  also  to  the  memories  and  the  thouglits  of  youth : 
its  buried  loves  arise;  its  past  friendships  rekindle.  The 
wheels  of  the  tired  machine  are  past  the  meridian,  and  the 
arch  through  which  they  now  decline  has  a  correspondent 
likeness  to  the  opposing  segment  through  which  they  had 
borne  upward  in  eagerness  and  triumph.  Thus  it  is,  too,  that 
we  bear  within  us  an  irresistible  attraction  to  our  earliest 
home.  Thus  it  is  that  we  say,  "It  matters  not  where  our 
midcourse  is  run,  but  we  will  die  in  the  place  where  we  were 
born,  —  in  the  point  of  space  whence  began  the  circle,  there 
also  shall  it  end!''''  This  is  the  grand  orbit  through  which 
Mortality  passes  only  once ;  but  the  same  figure  may  pervade 


458  DEVEREUX. 

all  through  which  it  moves  on  its  journey  to  the  grave.  Thus, 
one  peculiar  day  of  the  round  year  has  been  to  some  an  era, 
always  colouring  life  with  an  event.  Thus,  to  others,  some 
peculiar  place  has  been  the  theatre  of  strange  action,  influenc- 
ing all  existence,  whenever,  in  the  recurrence  of  destiny,  that 
place  has  been  revisited.  Thus  was  it  said  by  an  arch-sorcerer 
of  old,  whose  labours  yet  exist, —  though  perhaps,  at  the  mo- 
ment I  write,  there  are  not  three  living  beings  who  know  of 
their  existence, —  that  there  breathes  not  that  man  who  would 
not  find,  did  he  minutely  investigate  the  events  of  life,  that, 
in  some  fixed  and  distinct  spot  or  hour  or  person,  there  lived, 
though  shrouded  and  obscure,  the  pervading  demon  of  his  fate ; 
and  whenever,  in  their  several  paths,  the  two  circles  of  being 
touched,  that  moment  made  the  unnoticed  epoch  of  coming 
prosperity  or  evil.  I  remember  well  that  this  bewildering 
yet  not  unsolemn  reflection,  or  rather  fancy,  was  in  my  mind, 
as,  after  the  absence  of  many  years,  I  saw  myself  hastening 
to  the  home  of  my  boyhood,  and  cherishing  the  fiery  hope  of 
there  avenging  the  doom  of  that  love  which  I  had  there  con- 
ceived. Deeply,  and  in  silence,  did  I  brood  over  the  dark 
shapes  which  my  thoughts  engendered ;  and  I  woke  not  from 
my  revery,  till,  as  the  gray  of  the  evening  closed  around  us, 
we  entered  the  domains  of  Devereux  Court.  The  road  was 
rough  and  stony,  and  the  horses  moved  slowly  on.  How  fa- 
miliar was  everything  before  me!  The  old  pollards  which 
lay  scattered  in  dense  groups  on  either  side,  and  which  had 
lived  on  from  heir  to  heir,  secure  in  the  little  temptation  they 
afforded  to  cupidity,  seemed  to  greet  me  with  a  silent  but  in- 
telligible welcome.  Their  leaves  fell  around  us  in  the  autumn 
air,  and  the  branches  as  they  waved  towards  me  seemed  to 
say,  "  Thou  art  returned,  and  thy  change  is  like  our  own :  the 
green  leaves  of  thy  heart  have  fallen  from  thee  one  by  one ; 
like  us  thou  survivest,  but  thou  art  desolate ! "  The  hoarse 
cry  of  the  rooks,  gathering  to  their  rest,  came  fraught  with  the 
music  of  young  associations  on  my  ear.  Many  a  time  in  the 
laughing  spring  had  I  lain  in  these  groves,  watching,  in 
the  young  brood  of  those  citizens  of  air,  a  mark  for  my  child- 
ish skill  and  careless  disregard  of  life.     We  acquire  mercy  as 


DEVEREUX.  459 

we  acquire  thought:    I  would  not  now  have  harmed  one  of 
those  sable  creatures  for  a  king's  ransom! 

As  we  cleared  the  more  wooded  belt  of  the  park,  and  entered 
the  smooth  space,  on  which  the  trees  stood  alone  and  at  rarer 
intervals,  while  the  red  clouds,  still  tinged  with  the  hues  of 
the  departed  sun,  hovered  on  the  far  and  upland  landscape,  — 
like  Hope  flushing  over  Futurity,  —  a  mellowed  yet  rapid 
murmur,  distinct  from  the  more  distant  dashing  of  the  sea, 
broke  abruptly  upon  my  ear.  It  was  the  voice  of  that  brook 
whose  banks  had  been  the  dearest  haunt  of  my  childhood; 
and  now,  as  it  burst  thus  suddenly  upon  me,  I  longed  to  be 
alone,  that  I  might  have  bowed  down  my  head  and  wept  as  if 
it  had  been  the  welcome  of  a  living  thing!  At  once,  and  as 
by  a  word,  the  hardened  lava,  the  congealed  stream  of  the 
soul's  Etna,  was  uplifted  from  my  memory,  and  the  bowers 
and  palaces  of  old,  the  world  of  a  gone  day,  lay  before  me! 
With  how  wild  an  enthusiasm  had  I  apostrophized  that  stream 
on  the  day  in  which  I  first  resolved  to  leave  its  tranquil  re- 
gions and  fragrant  margin  for  the  tempest  and  tumult  of  the 
world.  On  that  same  eve,  too,  had  Aubrey  and  I  taken  sweet 
counsel  together;  on  that  same  eve  had  we  sworn  to  protect, 
to  love,  and  to  cherish  one  another !  —  and  now  !  —  I  saw  the 
very  mound  on  which  we  had  sat, —  a  solitary  deer  made  it 
his  couch,  and,  as  the  carriage  approached,  the  deer  rose,  and 
then  I  saw  that  he  had  been  wounded,  perhaps  in  some  con- 
test with  his  tribe,  and  that  he  could  scarcely  stir  from  the 
spot.  I  turned  my  face  away,  and  the  remains  of  my  ances- 
tral house  rose  gradually  in  view.  That  house  was  indeed 
changed ;  a  wide  and  black  heap  of  ruins  spread  around ;  the 
vast  hall,  with  its  oaken  rafters  and  huge  hearth,  was  no 
more, — I  missed  that,  and  I  cared  not  for  the  rest.  The  long 
galleries,  the  superb  chambers,  the  scenes  of  revelry  or  of 
pomp,  were  like  the  court  companions  who  amuse,  yet  attach 
us  not;  but  the  hall,  the  old  hall,  —  the  old,  hospitable  hall, 
—  had  been  as  a  friend  in  all  seasons,  and  to  all  comers,  and 
its  mirth  had  been  as  open  to  all  as  the  heart  of  its  last 
owner!  My  eyes  wandered  from  the  place  where  it  had  been, 
and  the  tall,  lone,   gray  tower,   consecrated  to  my  ill-fated 


460  DEVEREUX. 

namesake,  and  in  which  my  own  apartments  had  been  situated, 
rose  like  the  last  of  a  warrior  band,  stern,  gaunt,  and  solitary, 
over  the  ruins  around. 

The  carriage  now  passed  more  rapidly  over  the  neglected 
road,  and  wound  where  the  ruins,  cleared  on  either  side,  per- 
mitted access  to  the  tower.  In  two  minutes  mxore  I  was  in 
the  same  chamber  with  my  only  surviving  brother.  Oh, 
why  —  why  can  I  not  dwell  upon  that  scene,  that  embrace, 
that  reconciliation?  —  alas!  the  wound  is  not  yet  scarred 
over. 

I  found  Gerald,  at  first,  haughty  and  sullen;  he  expected 
my  reproaches  and  defiance, —  against  them  he  was  hardened; 
he  was  not  prepared  for  my  prayers  for  our  future  friend- 
ship, and  my  grief  for  our  past  enmity,  and  he  melted  at 
once! 

But  let  me  hasten  over  this.  I  had  well-nigh  forgot  that, 
at  the  close  of  my  historj'-,  I  should  find  one  remembrance  so 
endearing,  and  one  pang  so  keen.  Eapidly  I  sketched  to 
Gerald  the  ill  fate  of  Aubrey,  but  lingeringiy  did  I  dwell 
upon  Montreuil's  organized  and  most  baneful  influence  over 
him,  and  over  us  all ;  and  I  endeavoured  to  arouse  in  Gerald 
some  sympathy  with  my  own  deep  indignation  against  that 
villain.  I  succeeded  so  far  as  to  make  him  declare  that  he 
was  scarcely  less  desirous  of  justice  than  myself;  but  there 
was  an  embarrassment  in  his  tone  of  which  I  was  at  no  loss 
to  perceive  the  cause.  To  accuse  Montreuil  publicly  of  his 
forgery  might  ultimately  bring  to  light  Gerald's  latter  knowl- 
edge of  the  fraud.  I  hastened  to  say  that  there  was  now  no 
necessity  to  submit  to  a  court  of  justice  a  scrutiny  into  our 
private,  gloomy,  and  eventful  records.  No,  from  Oswald's 
communications  I  had  learned  enough  to  prove  that  Boling- 
broke  had  been  truly  informed,  and  that  Montreuil  had  still, 
and  within  the  few  last  weeks,  been  deeply  involved  in 
schemes  of  treason,  full  proof  of  which  could  be  adduced,  far 
more  than  sufficient  to  insure  his  death  by  the  public  execu- 
tioner.   Upon  this  charge  I  proposed  at  the  nearest  town  (the 

memorable  seaport  of  )  to  accuse  him,   and  to  obtain  a 

warrant  for  his  immediate  apprehension;  upon  this  charge  I 


DEVEREUX.  461 

proposed  alone  to  proceed  against  him,  and  by  it  alone  to  take 
justice  upon  his  more  domestic  crimes. 

My  brother  yielded  at  last  his  consent  to  my  suggestions. 
"I  understand,"  said  I,  "that  Montreuil  lurks  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  these  ruins,  or  in  the  opposite  islet.  Know  you 
if  he  has  made  his  asylum  in  either  at  this  present  time?" 

"jSTo,  my  brother,"  answered  Gerald,  "but  I  have  reason  to 
believe  that  he  is  in  our  immediate  vicinity,  for  I  received  a 

letter  from  him  three  days  ago,  when  at  Lord 's,  urging 

a  request  that  I  would  give  him  a  meeting  here,  at  my  earli- 
est leisure,  previous  to  his  leaving  England." 

"Has  he  really  then  obtained  permission  to  return  to 
France?" 

"  Yes, "  replied  Gerald,  "  he  informed  me  in  this  letter  that 
he  had  just  received  intelligence  of  his  pardon." 

"  May  it  fit  him  the  better, "  said  I,  with  a  stern  smile,  "  for 
a  more  lasting  condemnation.  But  if  this  be  true  we  have 
not  a  moment  to  lose :  a  man  so  habitually  vigilant  and  astute 
will  speedily  learn  my  visit  hither,  and  forfeit  even  his  ap- 
pointment with  you,  should  he,  which  is  likely  enough,  enter- 
tain any  suspicion  of  our  reconciliation  with  each  other; 
moreover,  he  may  hear  that  the  government  have  discovered 
his  designs,  and  may  instantly  secure   the  means  of  flight. 

Let  me,  therefore,  immediately  repair  to ,  and  obtain  a 

warrant  against  him,  as  well  as  officers  to  assist  our  search. 
In  the  meanwhile  you  shall  remain  here,  and  detain  him, 
should  he  visit  you;  but  where  is  the  accomplice?  —  let  us 
seize  him  instantly,  for  I  conclude  he  is  with  you." 

"What,  Desmarais?"  rejoined  Gerald.  "Yes,  he  is  the 
only  servant,  besides  the  old  portress,  which  these  poor 
ruins  will  allow  me  to  entertain  in  the  same  dwelling  with 

myself;  the  rest  of  my  suite  are  left  behind  at  Lord 's. 

But  Desmarais  is  not  now  within;  he  went  out  about  two 
hours  ago." 

"Hal  "  said  I,  "in  all  likelihood  to  meet  the  priest;  shall 
we  wait  his  return,  and  extort  some  information  of  Mon- 
treuil's  lurking-hole?" 

Before  Gerald  could  answer,  we  heard  a  noise  without,  and 


462  DEVEREUX. 

presently  I  distinguished  the  bland  tones  of  the  hypocritical 
Fatalist,  in  soft  expostulation  with  the  triumphant  voice  of 
Mr.  Marie  Oswald.  I  hastened  out,  and  discovered  that  the 
lay-brother,  whom  I  left  in  the  chaise,  having  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  valet  gliding  among  the  ruins,  had  recognized,  seized, 
and  by  the  help  of  the  postilions,  dragged  him  to  the  door  of 
the  tower.  The  moment  Desmarais  saw  me  he  ceased  to 
struggle :  he  met  my  eye  with  a  steady  but  not  disrespectful 
firmness ;  he  changed  not  even  the  habitual  hue  of  his  counte- 
nance,—  he  remained  perfectly  still  in  the  hands  of  his  ar- 
resters ;  and  if  there  was  any  vestige  of  his  mind  discoverable 
in  his  sallow  features  and  glittering  eye,  it  was  not  the  sign 
of  fear,  or  confusion,  or  even  surjDrise;  but  a  ready  prompt- 
ness to  meet  danger,  coupled,  perhaps,  with  a  little  doubt 
whether  to  defy  or  to  seek  first  to  diminish  it. 

Long  did  I  gaze  upon  him, —  struggling  with  internal  rage 
and  loathing,  the  mingled  contempt  and  desire  of  destruction 
with  which  we  gaze  upon  the  erect  aspect  of  some  small  but 
venomous  and  courageous  reptile, —  long  did  I  gaze  upon  him 
before  I  calmed  and  collected  my  voice  to  speak :  — 

"So  I  have  thee  at  last!  First  comes  the  base  tool,  and 
that  will  I  first  break,  before  I  lop  off  the  guiding  hand." 

"So  please  Monsieur  my  Lord  the  Count,"  answered  Des- 
marais, bowing  to  the  ground,  "  the  tool  is  a  file,  and  it  would 
be  useless  to  bite  against  it." 

"We  will  see  that,"  said  I,  drawing  my  sword;  "prepare 
to  die !  "  and  I  pointed  the  blade  to  his  throat  with  so  sudden 
and  menacing  a  gesture  that  his  eyes  closed  involuntarily, 
and  the  blood  left  his  thin  cheek  as  white  as  ashes :  but  he 
shrank  not. 

"If  Monsieur,"  said  he,  with  a  sort  of  smile,  "will  kill  his 
poor,  old,  faithful  servant,  let  him  strike.  Fate  is  not  to  be 
resisted;  and  prayers  are  useless!  " 

"OsAvald,"  said  I,  "release  your  prisoner;  wait  here,  and 
keep  strict  watch.     Jean  Desmarais,   follow  me ! " 

I  ascended  the  stairs,  and  Desmarais  followed.  "Now,"  I 
said,  when  he  was  alone  with  Gerald  and  myself,  "your  days 
are  numbered :  you  will  fall ;  not  by  my  hand,  but  by  that  of 


DEVEREUX.  463 

the  executioner.  Not  only  your  forgery,  but  your  robbery, 
your  abetment  of  murder,  are  known  to  me;  your  present 
lord,  with  an  indignation  equal  to  my  own,  surrenders  you  to 
justice.  Have  you  aught  to  urge,  not  in  defence  —  for  to  that 
I  will  not  listen  —  but  in  atonement?  Can  you  now  commit 
any  act  which  will  cause  me  to  forego  justice  on  those  which 
you  Art ve  committed?"  Desmarais  hesitated.  "Speak,"  said 
I.  He  raised  his  eyes  to  mine  with  an  inquisitive  and  wist- 
ful look. 

"Monsieur,"  said  the  wretch,  with  his  obsequious  smile, 
"Monsieur  has  travelled,  has  shone,  has  succeeded;  Monsieur 
must  have  made  enemies ;  let  him  name  them,  and  his  poor, 
old,  faithful  servant  will  do  his  best  to  become  the  humble 
instrument  of  their /«^e  /  " 

Gerald  drew  himself  aside,  and  shuddered.  Perhaps  till 
then  he  had  not  been  fully  aware  how  slyly  murder,  as  well 
as  fraud,  can  lurk  beneath  urbane  tones  and  laced  ruffles. 

"I  have  no  enemy,"  said  I,  "but  one;  and  the  hangman  will 
do  my  office  upon  him;  but  point  out  to  me  the  exact  spot 
where  at  this  moment  he  is  concealed,  and  you  shall  have  full 
leave  to  quit  this  country  forever.  That  enemy  is  Julian 
Montreuil ! " 

"Ah,  ah!"  said  Desmarais,  musingly,  and  in  a  tone  very 
different  from  that  in  which  he  usually  spoke ;  "  must  it  be 
so,  indeed?  For  twenty  years  of  youth  and  manhood  I  have 
clung  to  that  man,  and  woven  my  destiny  with  his,  because  I 
believed  him  born  under  the  star  which  shines  on  statesmen 
and  pontiffs.  Does  dread  Necessity  now  impel  me  to  betray 
him?  —  him,  the  only  man  I  ever  loved.  So  —  so  —  so !  Count 
Devereux,  strike  me  to  the  core :  I  will  not  betray  Bertrand 
Collinot!" 

"  Mysterious  heart  of  man !  "  I  exclaimed  inly,  as  I  gazed 
upon  the  low  brow,  the  malignant  eye,  the  crafty  lip  of  this 
wretch,  who  still  retained  one  generous  and  noble  sentiment 
at  the  bottom  of  so  base  a  breast.  But  if  it  sprang  there,  it 
only  sprang  to  wither! 

"As  thou  wilt,"  said  I;  "remember,  death  is  the  alterna- 
tive.    By  thy  birth-star,  Jean  Desmarais,  I  should  question 


464  DEVEREUX. 

whether  perfidy  be  not  better  luck  than  hanging:   but  time 
speeds;  farewell;  I  shall  meet  thee  on  thy  day  of  trial." 

I  turned  to  the  door  to  summon  Oswald  to  his  prisoner. 
Desmarais  roused  himself  from  the  revery  in  which  he  ap- 
peared to  have  sunk. 

"Why  do  I  doubt?"  said  he,  slowly.  "Were  the  alterna- 
tive his,  would  he  not  hang  me  as  he  would  hang  his  dog  if  it 
went  mad  and  menaced  danger?  My  very  noble  and  merciful 
master,"  continued  the  Fatalist,  turning  to  me,  and  relapsing 
into  his  customary  mannei,  "it  is  enough!  I  can  refuse 
nothing  to  a  gentleman  who  has  such  insinuating  manners. 
Montreuil  may  be  in  your  power  this  night;  but  that  rests 
solely  with  me.  If  I  speak  not,  a  few  hours  will  place  him 
irrevocably  beyond  your  reach.  If  I  betray  him  to  you, 
will  Monsieur  swear  that  I  shall  have  my  pardon  for  past 
errors  ?  " 

"On  condition  of  leaving  England,"  I  answered,  for  slight 
was  my  comparative  desire  of  justice  against  Desmarais;  and 
since  I  had  agreed  with  Gerald  not  to  bring  our  domestic  rec- 
ords to  the  glare  of  day,  justice  against  Desmarais  was  not 
easy  of  attainment;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  so  precarious 
seemed  the  chance  of  discovering  Montreuil  before  he  left 
England,  without  certain  intelligence  of  his  movements,  that 
I  was  willing  to  forego  any  less  ardent  feeling,  for  the  speedy 
gratification  of  that  which  made  the  sole  surviving  passion 
of  my  existence. 

"Be  it  so,"  rejoined  Desmarais;  "there  is  better  wine  in 
France!  And  Monsieur  my  present  master,  IMonsieur  Ger- 
ald, will  you  too  pardon  your  poor  Desmarais  for  his  proof  of 
the  great  attachment  he  always  bore  to  you?" 

"Away,  wretch!"  cried  Gerald,  shrinking  back;  "your 
villany  taints  the  very  air!" 

Desmarais  lifted  his  eyes  to  heaven,  with  a  look  of  appeal- 
ing innocence ;  but  I  was  wearied  with  this  odious  farce. 

"The  condition  is  made,"  said  I:  "remember,  it  only  holds 
good  if  Montreuil's  person  is  placed  in  our  power.  Now 
explain. " 

"This  night,  then,"  answered  Desmarais,  "Montreuil  pro- 


DEVEREUX.  465 

poses  to  leave  England  by  means  of  a  French  privateer,  or 
pirate,  if  that  word  please  you  better.  Exactly  at  the  hour 
of  twelve,  he  will  meet  some  of  the  sailors  upon  the  seashore, 
by  the  Castle  Cave ;  thence  they  proceed  in  boats  to  the  islet, 
off  which  the  pirate's  vessel  awaits  them.  If  you  would  seize 
Montreuil,  you  must  provide  a  force  adequate  to  conquer  the 
companions  he  will  meet.  The  rest  is  with  you;  my  part  is 
fuliilled." 

"Kemember!  I  repeat  if  this  be  one  of  thy  inventions, 
thou  wilt  hang." 

"I  have  said  what  is  true,"  said  Desmarais,  bitterly;  "and 
were  not  life  so  very  pleasant  to  me,  I  would  sooner  have  met 
the  rack." 

I  made  no  reply;  but,  summoning  Oswald,  surrendered 
Desmarais  to  his  charge.  I  then  held  a  hasty  consultation 
with  Gerald,  whose  mind,  however,  obscured  by  feelings  of 
gloomy  humiliation,  and  stunned  perhaps  by  the  sudden  and 
close  following  order  of  events,  gave  me  but  little  assistance 
in  my  projects.  I  observed  his  feelings  wdth  great  pain;  but 
that  was  no  moment  for  wrestling  with  them.  I  saw  that  I 
could  not  depend  upon  his  vigorous  co-operation;  and  that 
even  if  Montreuil  sought  him,  he  might  want  the  presence  of 
mind  and  the  energy  to  detain  my  enemy.  I  changed  there- 
fore the  arrangement  we  had  first  proposed. 

"I  will  remain  here,"  said  I,  "and  I  will  instruct  the  old 
portress  to  admit  to  me  any  one  who  seeks  audience  with  you. 
Meanwhile,   Oswald  and  yourself,   if  you  will   forgive,  and 

grant  my  request  to  that  purport,  wdll   repair  to  ,  and 

informing  the  magistrate  of  our  intelligence,  procure  such 
armed  assistance  as  may  give  battle  to  the  pirates,  should 
that  be  necessary,  and  succeed  in  securing  ^Montreuil ;  the  as- 
sistance maybe  indispensable;  at  all  events,  it  will  be  pru- 
dent to  secure  it:  perhaps  for  Oswald  alone,  the  magistrates 
would  not  use  that  zeal  and  expedition  which  a  word  of  yours 
can  command." 

"Of  mine?"  said  Gerald,  "say  rather  of  yours;  you  are 
the  lord  of  these  broad  lands ! " 

"jS"ever,  my  dearest  brother,  shall  they  pass  to   me  from 

30 


466  DEVEREUX. 

their  present  owner :  but  let  us  hasten  now  to  execute  justice ; 
we  will  talk  afterwards  of  friendship." 

I  then  sought  Oswald,  who,  if  a  physical  coward,  was  mor- 
ally a  ready,  bustling,  and  prompt  man;  and  I  felt  that  I 
could  rely  more  upon  him  than  I  could  at  that  moment  upon 
Gerald.  I  released  him  therefore  of  his  charge,  and  made 
Desmarais  a  close  prisoner  in  the  inner  apartment  of  the 
tower.  I  then  gave  Oswald  the  most  earnest  injunctions  to 
procure  the  assistance  we  might  require,  and  to  return  with  it 
as  expeditiously  as  possible ;  and  cheered  by  the  warmth  and 
decision  of  his  answer,  I  saw  him  depart  with  Gerald,  and 
felt  my  heart  beat  high  with  the  anticipation  of  midnight 
and  retribution. 


CHAPTER  ^^II. 

THE      CATASTROPHE. 

It  happened  unfortunately  that  the  mission  to was  in- 
dispensable. The  slender  accommodation  of  the  tower  for- 
bade Gerald  the  use  of  his  customary  attendants,  and  the 
neighbouring  villagers  were  too  few  in  number,  and  too  ill 
provided  with  weapons,  to  encounter  men  cradled  in  the  very 
lap  of  danger;  moreover,  it  was  requisite,  above  all  things, 
that  no  rumour  or  suspicion  of  our  intended  project  should 
obtain  wund,  and,  by  reaching  Montreuil's  ears,  give  him 
some  safer  opportunity  of  escape.  I  had  no  doubt  of  the 
sincerity  of  the  Fatalist's  communications,  and  if  I  had,  the 
subsequent  conversation  I  held  with  him,  when  Gerald  and 
Oswald  were  gone,  would  have  been  sufficient  to  remove  it. 
He  was  evidently  deeply  stung  by  the  reflection  of  his  own 
treachery,  and,  singularly  enough,  with  Montreuil  seemed  to 
perish  all  his  worldly  hopes  and  aspirations.  Desmarais,  I 
found,  was  a  man  of  much  higher  ambition  than  I  had  im- 
agined; and  he  had  linked  himself  closely  to  INIontreuil,  be- 
cause, from  the  genius  and  the  resolution  of  the  priest,  he 


DEVEREUX.  467 

had  drawn  the  most  sanguine  auguries  of  his  future  power. 
A.S  the  night  advanced,  he  grew  visibly  anxious;  and,  having 
fully  satisfied  myself  that  I  might  count  indisputably  upon 
his  intelligence,  I  once  more  left  him  to  his  meditations,  and, 
alone  in  the  outer  chamber,  I  collected  myself  for  the  coming 
event.  I  had  fully  hoped  that  Montreuil  would  have  repaired 
to  the  tower  in  search  of  Gerald,  and  this  was  the  strongest 
reason  which  had  induced  me  to  remain  behind:  but  time 
waned;   he  came  not,  and  at  length  it  grew  so  late  that  I 

began  to  tremble  lest  the  assistance  from  should  not 

arrive  in  time. 

It  struck  the  first  quarter  after  eleven :  in  less  than  an  hour 
my  enemy  would  be  either  in  my  power  or  beyond  its  reach ; 
still  Gerald  and  our  allies  came  not;  my  suspense  grew  intol- 
erable, my  pulse  raged  with  fever ;  I  could  not  stay  for  two 
seconds  in  the  same  spot ;  a  hundred  times  had  I  drawn  my 
sword,  and  looked  eagerly  along  its  bright  blade.  "Once," 
thought  I,  as  I  looked,  "thou  didst  cross  the  blade  of  my 
mortal  foe,  and  to  my  danger  rather  than  victory ;  years  have 
brought  skill  to  the  hand  which  then  guided  thee,  and  in  the 
red  path  of  battle  thou  hast  never  waved  in  vain.  Be  stained 
but  once  more  with  human  blood,  and  I  will  prize  every  drop 
of  that  blood  beyond  all  the  triumphs  thou  hast  brought 
me !  "  Yes,  it  had  been  with  a  fiery  and  intense  delight  that 
I  had  learned  tliat  Montreuil  would  have  companions  to  his 
flight  in  lawless  and  hardened  men,  who  would  never  yield 
him  a  prisoner  without  striking  for  his  rescue ;  and  I  knew 
enough  of  the  courageous  and  proud  temper  of  my  purposed 
victim  to  feel  assured  that,  priest  as  he  was,  he  would  not 
hesitate  to  avail  himself  of  the  weapons  of  his  confederates  or 
to  aid  them  with  his  own.  Then  would  it  be  lawful  to  oppose 
violence  to  his  resistance,  and  with  my  own  hand  to  deal  the 
death-blow  of  retribution.  Still  as  these  thoughts  flashed 
over  me  my  heart  grew  harder,  and  my  blood  rolled  more 
burningly  through  my  veins.  "They  come  not;  Gerald  re- 
turns not,"  I  said,  as  my  eye  dwelt  on  the  clock,  and  saw  the 
minutes  creep  one  after  the  other:  "it  matters  not;  he  at 
least  shall  not  escape !  —  were  he  girt  by  a  million,  I  would 


468  DEVEREUX. 

single  him  from  tlie  herd;  one  stroke  of  this  right  hand  is  all 
that  I  ask  of  life,  then  let  them  avenge  him  if  they  will." 
Thus  resolved,  and  despairing  at  last  of  the  return  of  Gerald, 
I  left  the  tower,  locked  the  outer  door,  as  a  still  further  se- 
curity against  my  prisoner's  escape,  and  repaired  with  silent 
but  swift  strides  to  the  beach  by  the  Castle  Cave.  It  wanted 
about  half  an  hour  to  midnight;  the  night  was  still  and 
breathless;  a  dim  mist  spread  from  sea  to  sky,  through 
which  the  stars  gleamed  forth  heavily,  and  at  distant  inter- 
vals. The  moon  was  abroad,  but  the  vapours  that  surrounded 
her  gave  a  watery  and  sicklied  dulness  to  her  light,  and  where- 
ever  in  the  niches  and  hollows  of  the  cliff  the  shadows  fell, 
all  was  utterly  dark  and  unbroken  by  the  smallest  ray;  only 
along  the  near  waves  of  the  sea  and  the  whiter  parts  of  the 
level  sand  were  objects  easily  discernible.  I  strode  to  and 
fro  for  a  few  minutes  before  the  Castle  Cave ;  I  saw  no  one, 
and  I  seated  myself  in  stern  vigilance  upon  a  stone,  in  a  worn 
recess  of  the  rock,  and  close  by  the  mouth  of  the  Castle  Cave. 
The  spot  where  I  sat  was  wrapped  in  total  darkness,  and  I  felt 
assured  that  I  might  wait  my  own  time  for  disclosing  myself. 
I  had  not  been  many  minutes  at  my  place  of  watch  before  I 
saw  the  figure  of  a  man  approach  from  the  left;  he  moved 
with  rapid  steps,  and  once  when  he  passed  along  a  place 
where  the  wan  light  of  the  skies  was  less  obscured  I  saw 
enough  of  his  form  and  air  to  recognize  Montreuil.  He 
neared  the  cave;  he  paused;  he  was  within  a  few  paces  of 
me ;  I  was  about  to  rise,  when  another  figure  suddenly  glided 
from  the  mouth  of  the  cave  itself. 

"Ha!"  cried  the  latter,  "it  is  Bertrand  CoUinot:  Fate  be 
lauded!" 

Had  a  voice  from  the  grave  struck  my  ear,  it  would  have 
scarcely  amazed  me  more  than  that  which  I  now  heard. 
Could  I  believe  my  senses?  the  voice  was  that  of  Desmarais, 
whom  I  had  left  locked  within  the  inner  chamber  of  the 
tower!  "Fly,"  he  resumed,  "fly  instantly;  you  have  not  a 
moment  to  lose :  already  the  stern  Morton  waits  thee ;  already 
the  hounds  of  justice  are  on  thy  track;  tarry  not  for  the  pi- 
rates, but  begone  at  once." 


DEVEREUX.  469 

"You  rave,  man!  What  mean  you?  the  boats  will  be  here 
immediately.  While  you  yet  speak  methinks  I  can  descry 
them  on  the  sea.     Something  of  this  I  dreaded  when,  some 

hours  ago,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  Gerald  on  the  road  to . 

I  saw  not  the  face  of  his  companion;  but  I  would  not  trust 
myself  in  the  tower:  yet  I  must  await  the  boats;  flight  is  in- 
deed requisite,  but  thoy  make  the  only  means  by  which  flight 
is  safe '  " 

"  Pray,  then,  thou  who  believest,  pray  that  they  may  come 
soon,  or  thou  diest  and  I  with  thee!  Morton  is  returned, —  is 
reconciled  to  his  weak  brother.     Gerald  and  Oswald  are  away 

to for  men  to  seize  and  drag  thee  to  a  public  death.     I 

was  arrested, —  threatened;  but  one  way  to  avoid  prison  and 
cord  was  shown  me.  Curse  me,  Bertrand,  for  I  embraced  it. 
I  told  them  thou  wouldst  fly  to-night,  and  with  whom.  They 
locked  me  in  the  inner  chamber  of  the  tower;  Morton  kept 
guard  without.  At  length  I  heard  him  leave  the  room;  I 
heard  him  descend  the  stairs,  and  lock  the  gate  of  the  tower. 
Ha!  ha!  little  dreamed  he  of  the  wit  of  Jean  Desmarais! 
Thy  friend  must  scorn  bolt  and  bar,  Bertrand  Collinot.  They 
had  not  searched  me :  I  used  my  instruments ;  thou  knowest 
that  with  those  instruments  I  could  glide  through  stone  walls ! 
—  I  opened  the  door ;  I  was  in  the  outer  room ;  I  lifted  the 
trap  door  which  old  Sir  William  had  had  boarded  over,  and 
Avhich  thou  hadst  so  artfully  and  imperceptibly  replaced, 
when  thou  wantedst  secret  intercourse  with  thy  pupils;  1 
sped  along  the  passage,  came  to  the  iron  door,  touched  the 
spring  thou  hadst  inserted  in  the  plate  which  the  old  knight 
had  placed  over  the  key-hole,  and  have  come  to  repair  my 
coward  treachery,  to  save  and  to  fly  with  thee.  But  while  I 
speak  we  tread  on  a  precipice.  Morton  has  left  the  house, 
and  is  even  now  perhaps  in  search  of  thee." 

"Ha!  I  care  not  if  he  be,"  said  Montreuil,  in  a  low  but 
haughty  tone.  "  Priest  though  I  am,  I  have  not  assumed  the 
garb,  without  assuming  also  the  weapon,  of  the  layman. 
Even  now  I  have  my  hand  upon  the  same  sword  which  shone 
under  the  banners  of  ]\rar;  and  which  once,  but  for  my  fool- 
ish mercy,  would  have  rid  me  forever  of  this  private  foe." 


470  DEVEREUX. 

"  Unslieath  it  now,  Julian  Montreuil ! "  said  I,  coming 
from  my  retreat,   and  confronting  tlie  pair. 

Montreuil  recoiled  several  paces.  At  that  instant  a  shot 
boomed  along  the  waters. 

"  Haste,  haste ! "  cried  Desmarais,  hurrying  to  the  waves, 
as  a  boat,  now  winding  the  cliff,  became  darkly  visible: 
"haste,  Bertrand,  here  are  Bonjean  and  his  men;  but  they 
are  pursued ! " 

Once  did  Montreuil  turn,  as  if  to  fly ;  but  my  sword  was  at 
his  breast,  and,  stamping  fiercely  on  the  ground,  he  drew  his 
rapier  and  parried  and  returned  my  assault;  but  he  retreated 
rapidly  towards  the  water  while  he  struck;  and  wild  and 
loud  came  the  voices  from  the  boat,  which  now  touched  the 
shore. 

"Come  —  come  —  come  —  the  officers  are  upon  us;  we  can 
wait  not  a  moment ! "  and  Montreuil,  as  he  heard  the  cries, 
mingled  with  oaths  and  curses,  yet  quickened  his  pace  to- 
wards the  quarter  whence  they  came.  His  staps  were  tracked 
by  his  blood:  twice  had  my  sword  passed  through  his  flesh; 
but  twice  had  it  failed  my  vengeance,  and  avoided  a  mortal 
part.  A  second  boat,  filled  also  with  the  pirates,  followed 
the  first ;  but  then  another  and  a  larger  vessel  bore  black  and 
fast  over  the  water ;  the  rush  and  cry  of  men  were  heard  on 
land;  again  and  nearer  a  shot  broke  over  the  heavy  air,  —  an- 
other and  another,  —  a  continued  fire.  The  strand  was  now 
crowded  with  the  officers  of  justice.  The  vessel  beyond  for- 
bade escape  to  the  opposite  islet.  There  was  no  hope  for  the 
pirates  but  in  contest,  or  in  dispersion  among  the  cliffs  or 
woods  on  the  shore.  They  formed  their  resolution  at  once, 
and  stood  prepared  and  firm,  partly  on  their  boats,  partly  on 
the  beach  around  them.  Though  the  officers  were  far  more 
numerous,  the  strife  —  fierce,  desperate,  and  hand  to  hand  — 
seemed  equally  sustained.  Montreuil,  as  he  retreated  before 
me,  bore  back  into  the  general  meUe,  and,  as  the  press  thick- 
ened, we  were  for  some  moments  separated.  It  was  at  this 
time  that  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  Gerald;  he  seemed  also  then 
to  espy  me,  and  made  eagerly  towards  me.  Suddenly  he  was 
snatched  from  my  view.     The  fray  relaxed;  the  officers,  evi- 


dp:vereux.  471 

dently  worsted,  retreated  towards  the  land,  and  the  pirates 
appeared  once  more  to  entertain  the  hope  of  making  their 
escape  by  water.  Probably  they  thought  that  the  darkness 
of  the  night  might  enable  them  to  baffle  the  pursuit  of  the 
adverse  vessel,  which  now  lay  expectant  and  passive  on  the 
wave.  However  this  be,  they  made  simultaneously  to  their 
boats,  and  among  their  numbers  I  descried  Montreuil.  I  set 
my  teeth  with  a  calm  and  prophetic  wrath.  But  three  strokes 
did  my  good  blade  make  through  that  throng  before  I  was  by 
his  side;  he  had  at  that  instant  his  hold  upon  the  boat's  edge, 
and  he  stood  knee-deep  in  the  dashing  waters.  I  laid  my 
grasp  upon  his  shoulder,  and  my  cheek  touched  his  own  as  I 
hissed  in  his  ear,  "  I  am  with  thee  yet!  "  He  turned  fiercely; 
he  strove  in  vain  to  shake  off  my  grasp.  The  boat  pushed 
away,  and  his  last  hope  of  escape  was  over.  At  this  moment 
the  moon  broke  away  from  the  mist,  and  we  saw  each  other 
plainly,  and  face  to  face.  There  was  a  ghastly  but  set  de- 
spair in  Montreuil's  lofty  and  proud  countenance,  which 
changed  gradually  to  a  fiercer  aspect,  as  he  met  my  gaze. 
Once  more,  foot  to  foot  and  hand  to  hand,  we  engaged;  the 
increased  light  of  the  skies  rendered  the  contest  more  that  of 
skill  than  it  had  hitherto  been,  and  Montreuil  seemed  to  col- 
lect all  his  energies,  and  to  fight  with  a  steadier  and  a  cooler 
determination.  Nevertheless  the  combat  was  short.  Once 
my  antagonist  had  the  imprudence  to  raise  his  arm  and  ex- 
pose his  body  to  my  thrust:  his  sword  grazed  my  cheek, —  I 
shall  bear  the  scar  to  my  grave, —  mine  passed  twice  through 
his  breast,  and  he  fell,  bathed  in  his  blood,  at  my  feet. 

"Lift  him!"  I  said,  to  the  men  who  now  crowded  round. 
They  did  so,  and  he  unclosed  his  eyes,  and  glared  upon  me  as 
the  death-pang  convulsed  his  features,  and  gathered  in  foam 
to  his  lips.  But  his  thoughts  were  not  upon  his  destroyer, 
nor  upon  the  wrongs  he  had  committed,  nor  upon  any  solitary 
being  in  the  linked  society  which  he  had  injured. 

"Order  of  Jesus,"  he  muttered,  "had  I  but  lived  three 
months  longer,   I  —  " 

So  died  Julian  Montreuil. 


472  DEVEREUX. 


CONCLUSION. 

MoNTREuiL  was  not  the  only  victim  in  the  brief  combat  of 
that  night;  several  of  the  pirates  and  their  pursuers  perished, 
and  among  the  bodies  we  found  Gerald.  He  had  been  pierced, 
by  a  shot,  through  the  brain,  and  was  perfectly  lifeless  when 
his  body  was  discovered.  By  a- sort  of  retribution,  it  seems 
that  my  unhappy  brother  received  his  death-wound  from  a 
shot,  fired  (probably  at  random)  by  Desmarais ;  and  thus  the 
instrument  of  the  fraud  he  had  tacitly  subscribed  to  became 
the  minister  of  his  death.  Nay,  the  retribution  seemed  even 
to  extend  to  the  very  method  by  which  Desmarais  had  escaped ; 
and,  as  the  reader  has  perceived,  the  subterranean  communi- 
cation which  had  been  secretly  reopened  to  deceive  my  uncle 
made  the  path  which  had  guided  Gerald's  murderer  to  the 
scene  which  afterwards  ensued.  The  delay  of  the  officers  had 
been  owing  to  private  intelligence,  previously  received  by  the 
magistrate  to  whom  Gerald  had  applied,  of  the  number  and 
force  of  the  pirates,  and  his  waiting  in  consequence  for  a  mil- 
itary reinforcement  to  the  party  to  be  despatched  against 
them.  Those  of  the  pirates  who  escaped  the  conflict  escaped 
also  the  pursuit  of  the  hostile  vessel ;  they  reached  the  islet, 
and  gained  their  captain's  ship.  A  few  shots  between  the 
two  vessels  were  idly  exchanged,  and  the  illicit  adventurers 
reached  the  French  shore  in  safety.  With  them  escaped 
Desmarais,  and  of  him,  from  that  hour  to  this,  I  have  heard 
nothing:    so  capriciously  plays  Time  with  villains! 

Marie  Oswald  has  lately  taken  unto  himself  a  noted  inn  on 
the  North  Road,  a  place  eminently  calculated  for  the  display 
of  his  various  talents ;  he  has  also  taken  unto  himself  a  wife, 
of  whose  tongue  and  temper  he  has  been  known  already  to 
complain  with  no  Socratic  meekness ;  and  we  may  therefore 
opine  that  his  misdeeds  have  not  altogether  escaped  their 
fitting  share  of  condemnation. 


DEVEREUX.  473 

Succeeding  at  once,  by  the  death  of  my  poor  brother,  to  the 
Devereux  estates,  I  am  still  employed  in  rebuilding,  on  a  yet 
more  costly  scale,  my  ancestral  mansion.  So  eager  and  im- 
patient is  my  desire  for  the  completion  of  my  undertaking 
that  I  allow  rest  neither  by  night  nor  day,  and  half  of  the 
work  will  be  done  by  torchlight.  With  the  success  of  this 
project  terminates  my  last  scheme  of  Ambition. 

Here,  then,  at  the  age  of  thirty -four,  I  conclude  the  history 
of  my  life.  Whether  in  the  star  which,  as  I  now  write, 
shines  in  upon  me,  and  which  a  romance,  still  unsubdued, 
has  often  dreamed  to  be  the  bright  prophet  of  my  fate,  some- 
thing of  future  adventure,  suffering,  or  excitement  is  yet 
predestined  to  me ;  or  whether  life  will  muse  itself  away  in 
the  solitudes  which  surround  the  home  of  my  past  childhood 
and  the  scene  of  my  present  retreat, —  creates  within  me  but 
slight  food  for  anticipation  or  conjecture.  I  have  exhausted 
the  sources  of  those  feelings  which  flow,  whether  through  the 
channels  of  anxiety  or  of  hope,  towards  the  future ;  and  the 
restlessness  of  my  manhood,  having  attained  its  last  object, 
has  done  the  labour  of  time,  and  bequeathed  to  me  the  in- 
difference of  age. 

If  love  exists  for  me  no  longer,  I  know  well  that  the  mem- 
ory of  that  which  has  been  is  to  me  far  more  than  a  living 
love  is  to  others ;  and  perhaps  there  is  no  passion  so  full  of 
tender,  of  soft,  and  of  hallowing  associations  as  the  love 
which  is  stamped  by  death.  If  I  have  borne  much,  and  my 
spirit  has  worked  out  its  earthly  end  in  travail  and  in  tears, 
yet  I  would  not  forego  the  lessons  which  my  life  has  be- 
queathed me,  even  though  they  be  deeply  blended  with  sad- 
ness and  regret.  No!  were  I  asked  what  best  dignifies  the 
present  and  consecrates  the  past;  what  enables  us  alone  to 
draw  a  just  moral  from  the  tale  of  life;  what  sheds  the  purest 
light  upon  our  reason;  what  gives  the  firmest  strength  to  our 
religion;  and,  whether  our  remaining  years  pass  in  seclusion 
or  in  action,  is  best  fitted  to  soften  the  heart  of  man,  and  to 
elevate  the  soul  to  God, —  I  would  answer,  with  Lassus,  it  is 
"Experience  ! " 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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\\\  STACKS 

FEB  1 8 1965 


REC'D  LD 
jIiN    4 '65 -II  am 

MAR  0  4  2nnR 


LD  21-100m-9,'48(B399sl6)476 


UC_  BERKELEY  LIBRARIFS 


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